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Good Selections, No. 2. 



Selected Readings, 



SERIOUS AND HUMOROUS, 



PROSE AND POETRY, 



APPENDIX ON ELOCUTION, ETC. 



BY 

Prof. J; E. FKOBISHEK, 

Author op "Voice and Action," "Guide to Elocution," Etc. 



NEW YORK 



J. W. Schermerhorn & Co 

14 Bond Street. 

1875. 




6 






^\^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 

J. W. SCHERMERHORN & CO., 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Lange, Little & Co., 

PEINTERS, ELECTBOTYPERS AND STEREOTYPEBS, 

108 to 114 Woostek Street, N. Y. 



PEEFAOE 



Voice and Action was published a few years since, more 
particularly as a manual of instruction, and, consequently, 
contains but a limited number of selections especially adapt- 
ed to parlor or platform reading. 

The author of the above-mentioned work has continually 
experienced the necessity of having some more extended 
means of supplying pupils and friends with material for such 
occasions, and hopes to meet these needs in the present work. 

It is the intention to publish only such recognized selec- 
tions as have been most frequently desired, and the more 
recent productions possible to obtain. 

The popular serial form is the plan pi^oposed, combining 
as it does two very desirable advantages; the opportunity of 
constantly adding fresh material, and the no inconsiderable 
one of inexpensiveness. 

To publishers, grateful acknowledgments are due : James 
R. Osgood, & Co., for use of poems from Whittier, Lowell, 
Trowbridge, Stedman, and Miss Proctor; Harper & 
Bros., for use of poems from Naseby, Carlton, and Dug- 
gane (in Magazine and Weekly) ; Hurd & Houghton, for 
use of poems from the Cary Sisters ; to Roberts Bros., for 
use of poems from Rossetti. 

To friends, much is due : to Mrs. E. F. Ellet for especial 
translations and many excellent selections from other 
authors. To Madame 0. W. Le Vert for original sketches 
expressly arranged. To Mrs. Lillie Devereux Blake, for 
original poems and selected material. To Miss Ella Dietz, for 
original poems and sketches. To Miss Sara Genevra Chafa, 
for original and many selected poems from her repetoire of 



4 PKEFACE. 

readings used in public. To Col. T. B. Thorpe, for original 
poems and prose sketches. To John A. Volck, for original 
poems and translations expressly for the serial. To David 
Legare, for original prose and poetry and miscellaneous 
selected pieces. To J. Seaver Page, for numerous contribu- 
tions from private collection. 



1ST. B. — Selections from persons willing to contribute, either 
original or selected, prose or poetry, will be gladly received 
for following numbers of the serial readings. 

J. E. FROBISHER. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

After the Battle Sallie Bridges Rynes. 97 

All But Lost Charles Follen Lee. 87 

Ballad of the War Alice Carey. 121 

Bells (Parody) J. E. Frobisher. 103 

Brutus and Caesar John J. Case. 59 

Cane-Bottomed Chair Thackeray. 105 

Charlie Machree W. J. Hoppin. 78 

Curfew 118 

Darling Wee Shoe Dora Shaw. 68 

Darnley's Dream Swinburne. 107 

Decoration Day Gen. Cochrane. 77 

Dutchman's Shmall Pox 66 

Dying Drummer-Boy T. B. Thorpe. 50 

Enoch Arden 93 

Experience and Hope , Frothingham. 91 

Fairy Precept (Dialogue) 137 

Fairy Story 133 

Falling Stars (Translation) Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 46 

Fragment Ella Bietz. 48 

Girl with the Milking Pail 80 

Half a Century Ago > Mrs. Lillie Bevereux Blake. 30 

How He Saved St. Michael's. . . > Mary A. P. Stansbury. 72 

How the Baby Came Mrs. M. E. Bradley. 116 

Irishman's Spur > 84 

Maclaine's Child 124 

Manuela Bayard Taylor. 113 

Moonlight Fancies Sara Genevra Chafa. 63 

Morning on the Pincian Hill Madame Le Vert. 56 

Murad (Translation) John A. Volck. 127 



6 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Old Elm 53 

One Day Solitary Trowbridge. 19 

On the Water Geibel 58 

Our Dead Gen. James B. M 'Kean. 75 

Polish Boy Mrs. A. Stephens. 109 

Professor of Signs 28 

Regulus Kellogg. 61 

Revenge of the Flowers (Translation) Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 25 

Shakespeare Gervinus. 23 

Sister Helen Gabriel Dante Rosetti. 32 

Sorrow John A. Volck. 44 

Story of Some Bells 7 

Story of the Faithful Soul Adelaide Proctor. 100 

Striving Ella Dietz. 21 

Sumner's Character Carl Schurz. 70 

Swineherd Hans Andersen. 16 

Tom O'Connor's Cat 39 

Toussaint L'Ouverture Wendell Phillips. 95 

Wanderer's Christmas .Sara Genevra Chafa. 14 

Widow Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 82 



APPENDIX 



Voice Culture. — Reading. — To Teachers. — The Nasal Organs. — 

The Youth of Henry Ward Beecher 143 

Brevities, Original and Selected 148 

Character Reading. — Wendell Phillips 151 

Public Readings. — The Uses of Readings 153 

The Actor and the Reader. — Management of the Voice. — Poetry. — 
Argumentative Reading. — Sentimental Reading. — The Bible. 

— Dramatic Reading 158 

Witty and Humorous Readings. — Public Readings 164 

Before an Audience. — Platform Oratory. — Open Air Speaking 166 



FEOBISHEE'S 

Serial Readings 



THE STORY OF SOME BELLS. 

Long years agone a southern artisan, 

Dowered with the tender genius of his clime, 
A dreamy-eyed, devout, and sad-voiced man, 

Cast, with rare skill, a wondrous tuneful chime, 
"Whose very sound might draw the pagan Turk 

To bow in rapture on the minster floor ; 
And, it is said, this founder seemed to pour 

His deep Italian soul into his work 
Like molten music, and when first high hung, 

A triumph peal the bells harmonious rung, 
And made a Sabbath on the golden air, 

He stood with clasped hands, and brow all bare, 
And murmured liquid syllables of prayer. 

Against the cliff, beneath the convent tower, < 

He built the rude nest of his peasant home ; 

Nor wandering sail, nor hope of gain had power 

To tempt him from the spot blest by his bells to roam. 

At last, there came to curse that lovely land, 
The woe and waste of war ; the legend tells 

How one wild night a sacrilegeous band 
Despoiled the convent even of its bells. 



erobisher's serial readings. 

The founder seizing his rude arms, in vain 

Strove that fierce tide of blood and fire to stay ; 

He saw his home in flames, his brave sons slain, 
And then a dungeon's walls shut out the day. 

Long years wore on, at last the artisan, 
A weary, bowed, gray-haired, and lonely man, 

Joyless beheld again the sea, the sky, 

And pined to hear his bells once more — then die. 

Somewhere, he knew, those bells at morn and even, 
Made sweetest music in the ear of Heaven ; 

Voiced human worship, called to praise and prayer, 
Censers of sound, high swinging in the air. 

The legend telleth how, from town to town, 
Where'er a minster cross stood up to bless 

God's praying souls, where'er a spire looked down, 
He, through strange lands and weary ways did pre 

His mournful pilgrimage, companionless. 

The Norman carillons, so sweet and clear, 
The chimes of Amsterdam and gray old Grhent, 

But alien music rang they to his ear ; 

No faintest thrill of joy to his sad heart they sent. 

Before full many an English tower he stood 
And vainly listened, then his quest pursued. 

Soft shades foretold the coming of the night, 

Yet goldenly on Shannon's emerald shores, 
As charmed, or fallen asleep, the sunset light 

Still lingered — or as there sweet Day 
Had dropped her mantle, ere she took her flight. 

Up Shannon's tide a boat slow held its way ; 
All silent bent the boatmen to their oars, 

For at their feet a dying stranger lay. 



THE STORY OP SOME BELLS. 9 

In broken accents of a foreign tongue, 

He breathed fond names, and murmured words of prayer, 
And yearningly his wasted arms outflung, 

Grasped viewless hands, and kissed the empty air. 

Sudden upon the breeze came floating down 

The sound of vesper-bells from Limerick town, 
So sweet 'twould seem that holiest of chimes 

Stored up new notes amid its silent times — 
Some wandering melodies from heavenly climes — 

Or gathered music from the summer hours, 
As bees draw sweets from tributary flowers. 

Peal followed peal, till all the air around 
Trembled in waves of undulating sound. 

The dying stranger, where he gasping lay, 

Heard the sweet chime, and knew it ringing nigh ; 

Quick from his side the phantoms fled away, 
And the last soul-light kindled in his eye! 

His cold hands reaching toward the shadowy shore, 
"Madonna, thanks !" he cried, "I hear my dells once 
more ! " 

Nearer they drew to Limerick, where the bells 

Were raining music from the church-tower high ; 
The pilgrim listened till their latest swells 

Shook from his heart the faintest echoing sigh ; 
With their sweet ceasing, ceased his mortal breath. 

So, like a conqueror, to the better land 
Passed the worn artisan — such music grand 

Uprolled before him on the heavenly path. 

From the west heavens went out the sunset gold, 

And Hesperus his silver lamp uphung; 
To countless pious hearts those bells had rung 

The vesper chime that summons souls to pray: 
But to that stranger, weary, lone, and old, 

They pealed the matins of immortal day. 



10 frobisher's sebial readings. 

ONE DAY SOLITARY. 



TROWBRIDGE. 



I am all right ! Good-bye, old chap ! 

Twenty-four hours, that won't be long ; 
Nothing to do but take a nap, 

And — say ! can a fellow sing a song? 
Will the light fantastic be in order — 

A pigeon-wing on your pantry floor? 
"What are the rules for a regular boarder ? 

Be quiet? All right! Oling-clang goes the door, 

Clang clinic the bolts, and I am lockecl in ; 

Some pious reflection and repentance 
Come next, I suppose, for I just begin 

To perceive the sting in the' tail of my sentence — 
" One day whereof shall be solitary." 

Here I am at the end of my journey, 
And — well, it ain't jolly, not so very — 

Fd like to throttle that sharp attorney ! 

He took my money, the very last dollar, 

Didn't leave me so much as a dime, 
Not enough to buy me a paper collar 

To wear at my trial ; he knew all the time 
'Twas some that I got for the stolen silver! 

Why hasn't he been indicted, too ? 
If he doesn't exactly rob and pilfer, 

He lives by the plunder of .them that do. 

Then didn't it put me into a fury, 
To see him step up, and laugh and chat 

With the county attorney, and joke with the jury, 
When all was over, then go back for his hat ; 



ONE DAY SOLITARY. 11 

While Sue was sobbing to break ber heart, 
And all I could do was to stand and stare! 

He had pleaded my cause, he had played his part, 
And got his fee — and what more did he care? 

It's droll to think how, just out yonder, 

The world goes jogging on the same; 
Old men will save, and boys will squander, 

And fellows will play at the same old game 
Of get-and-spend — to-morrow, next year — 

And drink and carouse, and who will there be 
To remember a comrade buried here ? 

I am to them, they are nothing to me. 

And Sue — yes, she will forget me, too, 

I know ; already her tears are drying. 
I believe there is nothing that girl can do 

So easy as laughing, and lying, and crying. 
She clung to me well while there was hope, 

Then broke her heart in that last wild sob ; 
But she ain't going to sit and mope 

While I am at work on a five years' job. 

They'll set me to learning a trade, no doubt, 

And I must forget to speak or smile ; 
I shall go marching in and out, 

One of a silent, tramping file 
Of felons, at morning, and noon, and night — 

Just down to the shops, and back to the cells, 
And work with a thief at left and right, 

And feed, and sleep, and — nothing else. 

Was I born for this ? Will the old folks know ? 

I can see them now on the old home-place ; 
His gait is feeble, his step is slow, 

There's a settled grief in his furrowed face; 



12 frobisher's serial readings. 

While she goes wearily groping about 

In a sort of dream, so bent, so sad ! 
But this won't do ! I must sing and shout, 

And forget myself, or else go mad. « 

I won't be foolish ; although for a minute 

I was there in my little room once more. 
What wouldn't I give just now to be in it? 

The bed is yonder, and there is the door ; 
The Bible is here on the neat white stand; 

The summer sweets are ripening now ; 
In the flickering light I reach my hand 

From the window, and pluck them from the bough. 

When I was a child, (0, well for me 

And them if I had never been older !) 
When he told me stories on his knee, 

And tossed me, and carried me on his shoulder; 
When she knelt down and heard my prayer, 

And gave me, in my bed, my good-night kiss — 
Did they ever think that all their care 

For an only son could come to this ? 

Foolish again ! ]STo sense in tears 

And gnashing the teeth; and yet, somehow, 
I haven't thought of them so for years : 

I never knew them, I think, till now. 
How fondly, how blindly, they trusted me ! 

When I should have been in my bed asleep, 
I slipped from the window, and down the tree, 

And sowed for the harvest which now I reap. 

And Jennie — how could I bear to leave her ? 

If I had but wished — but I was a fool ! 
My heart was filled with a thirst and a fever, 

Which no sweet airs of heaven could cool. 



ONE DAT SOLITARY. 13 

I can hear her asking : "Have you heard ? " 
But mother falters and shakes her head ; 

" 0, Jennie ! Jennie ! never a word ! 

What can it mean ? He must be dead ! " 

Light-hearted, a proud, ambitious lad, 

I left my home that morning in May ; 
What visions, what hopes, what plans I had ! 

And what have I — where are they all — to-day ? 
Wild fellows, and wine, and debts, and gaming, 

Disgrace, and the loss of place and friend ; 
And I was an outlaw, past reclaiming ; 

Arrest and sentence, and — this is the end ! 

Five years ! Shall ever I quit this prison ? 

Homeless, an outcast, where shall I go ? 
Eeturn to them, like one arisen 

From the grave, that was buried long ago? 
All is still; 'tis the close of the week; 

I slink through the garden, I stop by the well, 
I see him totter, I hear her shriek ! — 

What sort of a tale will I have to tell ? 

But here I am ! What's the using of grieving ? 

Five years— will it be too late to begin ? 
Can sober thinking and honest living 

Still make me the man I might have been ? 
I'll sleep : — 0, would I could wake to-morrow 

In that old room, to find, at last, 
That all my trouble and all their sorrow 

Are only a dream of the night that is past. 



14 frobisher's serial readings. 



THE WANDERER'S CHRISTMAS. 



SARA GEKEYRA CHAFA. 



'Tis Christmas night in cot and hall, 

'Tis Christmas night at sea, 
'Tis Christmas night o'er all the earth, 

For every one but me. 
I see the village lights that gleam 

From many happy homes, 
I know that there are smiles of love, 

For all save one who roams. 

'Tis Christmas night among the rich, 

'Tis Christmas with the poor, 
For all have some to love and greet, 

Save I who walk the moor. 
I know the Christmas trees are hung 

With presents fair to see, 
Bestowed by loving hearts and hands 

On every one but me. 

Wide open swing the castle gates, 

And troops of guests go in, 
But I am shut from happiness 

As if it were a sin. 
Gay groups of lovers come and go, 

Beneath the starlit sky, 
But, — I wander to and fro, 

And wander but to die. 

I sit upon the marble steps 
Of stately homes of wealth, 

And when the door swings wide 
I look on merry youth and health. 



THE WANDERER'S CHRISTMAS. 15 

The skies flame out with northern lights, 

But bitter is the cold; 
0, would that I might walk, to-night, 

The city payed with gold. 

My tattered clothes, amid the blast, 

Blow wildly here and there, 
And though my lips are stiff and blue, 

I strive to frame a prayer. 
This is the night when Christ came down 

To save a world of woe ; 
But ah ! it brings no joy to me 

Amid this blinding snow. 

I've toiled so long without repay 

That I am weak and faint ; 
And yet, to any ear on earth, 

I dare not make complaint. 
0, rich men, sitting in your halls, 

0, women, proud and fair, 
Pray God that you may never know 

What I am called to bear. 

Your lights send out upon the snow 

A bright and cheery ray, 
Which is but mockery to one 

Who has nowhere to stay. 
I trusted night would cool the pulse 

That beats so hot and high; 
It will ; I hear it whispered low 

That I am soon to die. 

I wonder if 'tis Christmas night 

Above, beyond the blue ; 
And are there any presents there 

For me as well as you ? 



16 



Ah, me, my pulse is beating slow, 

I can no longer roam ; 
Christ ! this Christmas night take Thou 

The weary wanderer home. 

Ah, list ! I hear the angels sing, 

I see their harps of gold ; 
All pain is gone, no longer I 

Can feel the bitter cold. 
The gates swing wide, I see a face 

Bend to me, dazzling bright : 
Praise God ! the wanderer will be 

In heaven this Christmas night. 



THE SWINEHEED. 



andeeson — (Da?iish). dahlbom. 



There was once a poor prince, who had a kingdom ; his 
kingdom was very small, but still quite large enough to 
marry upon, and he wished to marry, of course. 

It was certainly rather bold of him to say to the Emperor's 
daughter — " Will you have me ? " — but so he did, for his 
name was renowned far and wide, and there were a hundred 
princesses who would have answered — '* Yes ! and thank you 
kindly ! " We shall see what this princess said. Listen ! 
Where the prince's father lay buried there grew a rose-tree 
— a most beautiful rose-tree — which blossomed only once in 
every five years, and even then, bore only one flower; but 
that was a rose that smelt so sweet that all cares and sorrows 
were forgotten by him who inhaled its fragrance. And 
furthermore, the prince had a nightingale which could sing- 
in such a manner that it seemed as if all sweet melodies 
dwelt in her little throat. This rose and nightingale the 



THE SWINEHERD. 17 

princess was to have, and they were accordingly put into 
large silver caskets and sent her. 

The Emperor had them brought into the large parlor where 
the princess was playing at visiting with the ladies of the 
court — they never did anything else — and when she saw the 
caskets with presents, she clapped her hands for joy. " Oh, if 
it were but a little pussy-cat," said she; but the rose came 
to view. " Oh, how prettily it is made ! " said all the court 
ladies. "It is more than pretty," said the Emperor, " it is 
nice." But the princess touched it and was almost ready to 
cry. " Fie, papa ! " said she, " it is not made at all, it is natu- 
ral ! " " Oh ! " said all the ladies, " it is not made at all, it 
is natural! Oh! oh! oh!" 

" Let us see what is in the other casket before we get into 
a bad humor," said the Emperor. So the nightingale came 
forth and sang so delightfully, that at first no one could say 
anything ill-humored of her. " Siqwrbe! Charmant ! " ex- 
claimed all the ladies, for they all used to chatter French, 
each one worse than her neighbors. " How much this bird 
reminds me of a musical-box that belonged to our blessed 
Empress ! " said an old knight. " Oh, yes ! these are the 
same tones, the same execution ! " 

" Yes, yes," said the Emperor, and he wept like a child at 
the remembrance. 

" I will still hope it is not a real bird," said the princess. 

" Yes, it is a real bird," said those who had brought it. 

"Well, then, let the bird fly," said the princess; and she 
positively refused to see the prince. However, he was not 
to be discouraged ; he daubed his face over brown and black, 
pulled his cap over his ears, and knocked at the door. 
" Good day to my lord, the Emperor ! " said he ; " can I have 
employment at the palace ? " " I don't know," said the Em- 
peror, " there come so many to solicit ; but never mind, I 
want some one to take care of the pigs, for we have a great 
many of them." So the prince was appointed Imperial Supe- 
rior swineherd. He had a dirty little room close by the 
pigsty, and there he sat the whole day and worked. By 



18 fkobishek's serial readings. 

evening, he had made a pretty little kitchen-pot. Little 
bells were hung all round it ; and when the pot was boiling, 
these bells tinkled in the most charming manner, and 
played the old melody — 

' ' Ach du lieber Augustine, 
Alles vech, vech, vech ! " 

But what was still more curious, whoever held his ringer 
in the steam of the kitchen-pot, immediately smelt all the 
dishes that were cooking on every hearth in the city — this, 
you see, was something quite different from a rose. Now the 
princess happened to walk that way, and when she heard the 
tune, she stood quite still and seemed very much pleased, 
for she could also play " Ach du lieber Augustine." It was 
the only piece she knew, and she played it with one finger. 
"Why, there is my piece!" said she; "that swineherd must 
certainly have been well educated. Go in and ask him. the 
price of the instrument." 

So, one of the court ladies must run in ; you know that 
pigsties are not made at all for court ladies, so she drew on 
wooden shoes first. " What will you take for the kitchen- 
pot ? " asked the lady. 

" I will have ten kisses from the princess," said the swine- 
herd. 

" Yes, indeed ! " said the lady. 

" I cannot sell it for less," rejoined the swineherd. 

" Now, what did he say ? " asked the princess, on the lady's 
return. 

" Oh, I can't tell it— it's so awful ! " 

"Well, you can whisper it then !" and then she whispered. 

"He is an impudent fellow," said the princess, and walked 
on. But when she had gone a little way, the bells tinkled 
so charmingly — 

"Ach du lieber Augustine, 
Alles vech, vech, vech ! " 

" Stay ! '' said the princess. " Ask him if he will have ten 
kisses from the ladies of my court ? " 



THE SWINEHERD. 19 

"No, thank yon," said the swineherd; "ten kisses from 
the princess, or I keep the kitchen-pot myself ! " 

" That must not be, either," said the princess ; " but do you 
all stand before me so that no one may see us!" And the 
court ladies placed themselves in front of her, and spread 
out their dresses. The swineherd got ten kisses, and the 
princess — the kitchen-pot. That was delightful ! The pot was 
kept boiling the whole evening and the whole of the follow- 
ing day, and they knew perfectly w T ell what was cooking at 
every fire throughout the city, from the chambermaid's to 
the cobbler's, and the court ladies danced and clapped their 
hands for joy. 

" Oh, I know who has soup and pancakes for dinner, to- 
day!" 

" Yes, but I know who has scorched-milk porridge and 
cutlets for dinner ! " 

" Oh, how interesting!" 

« Very interesting, indeed ! " repeated the lady-steward of 
the king's household ! 

"Yes, but keep my secret, for I am the Emperor's 
daughter ! " 

"Of course!" cried they all together. 

The swineherd, that is to say, the prince — but no one knew 
that he was other than an ill-favored swineherd — let not a 
day pass without working at something; he at last con- 
structed a rattle, which, when it was swung round, played 
all the waltzes and jig-tunes which have ever been heard 
since the creation. 

" Ah, that is superb ! " said the princess, w T hen she passed 
by; "I have never heard prettier compositions. Go in and 
ask him the price ; but mind, he shall have no more kisses ! " 

"He will have a hundred kisses from the princsss !" said 
the lady who had been to ask. 

"I think he is not in his right mind," said the princess, 
and walked on. But when she had gone a little way, she 
stopped again. "One must encourage art," said she; "I am 
the Emperor's daughter. Tell him he shall, as on yesterday, 



20 frobisher's serial readings. 

have ten kisses from me, and may take the rest from the 
ladies of my court." 

" Oh ! but we should not like that at all ! " said they. 

" What are you muttering?" said the princess; "if I can 
kiss him, surely you can. Eemember 'tis I who give you 
food and clothes." So the ladies were obliged to go to him 
again. 

"A hundred kisses from the princess!" said he, " or else 
let every one keep his own." 

" Stand round ! " said she ; and then all the ladies stood 
round whilst the kissing was going on. 

"What can be the reason of such a crowd close by the pig- 
sty ? " said the Emperor, who happened just to step out on 
the balcony. He rubbed his eyes, and put on his spectacles. 
" They are the ladies of the court; I must go down and see 
what they are about." And then he wrapped himself close 
up with his morning-gown, and pulled up his slippers at the 
heel, which he had trodden down, and hurried away. As 
soon as he had got into the courtyard, he moved very softly, 
and the ladies were so much engrossed in counting the kisses, 
that all might go on fairly, that he neither got too many nor 
too few, that they did not perceive the Emperor, who rose on 
tip-toes. 

"What is all this? " said he, when he saw what was going 
on, and boxed the princess' ear with his slipper, just as the 
swineherd was taking the eighty-sixth kiss. "Cum arous ! " 
cried he ; for he was very angry, and then he spoke G-erman, 
of course ; and both princess and swineherd were thrust out 
of his kingdom. The princess now stood and wept, the 
swineherd scolded, and the rain poured down. 

" Alas ! unhappy creature that I am ! " said the princess. 
"If I had but married the handsome young prince! ah, how 
unfortunate I am!" But the swineherd went behind a tree, 
washed the black and brown color from his face, threw off 
his dirty clothes, and stepped forth in his princely robes, and 
he looked so noble that the princess could not help bowing 

'« I have come to despise thee ! " said he. " Thou wouldst 



STBIVING 21 

not have an honorable prince ! Thou couldst not prize the 
rose and the nightingale, but thou wast ready to kiss the 
swineherd for the sake of a trumpery plaything. Thou art 
rightly served." He then went back to his own little king- 
dom, and shut the door in her face, and bolted it. And 
now she might indeed stand there and sing — 

" Acli du lieber Augustine, 
Alles vech, vech, vech ! " 



STKIVINGL 



ELLA DIETZ — (from Ms.). 



I'm tired of tragedies and sorrows, 
Of waking nights and toiling morrows, 
Of death, satiety, and sin, 
Open ye gods and let me in ! 

Divide with me your jests and laughter, 
Your grand indifference of hereafter, 
And in your brimming nectar cup 
We'll first drown grief, then drink it up. 

Why should we care, though men be slain ? 
Who knows but seeming loss be gain ? 
Why should we weep with many tears, 
When one escapes some bitter years? 

Why should we spurn as fragile toys, 
The godlike mirth, the godlike joys, 
And grasp each fleeting human pleasure 
As some inestimable treasure ? 

We weep at joy, we laugh at sin ; 
We sorrow for what might have been : 



22 tfKOUiSHEK-S SERIAL READINGS. 

Could we but climb a little higher 
We'd know how poor is our desire. 

Grasping the false, we lose the real ; 
We ca]l the substance poor ideal; 
Grovel like swine amid the dust, 
Excusing sin because we must. 

Weak, human, frail, infirm of will, 
Our lowest passions rule us still; — 
While mind and soul must be our slaves, 
Or bury us in martyrs' graves. 

We cringe, we fawn, we fear, we feign ; 
We sell our souls for this world's gain ; 
We dwarf our reason, dull our sense, 
To gain a false pre-eminence. 

We've lost our rule o'er earth's domain ; 
Her precious secrets she'll retain : 
Pry as we will with finest arts, 
We cannot reach her heart of hearts. 

No longer giants we, but dwarfs ; 
The greatest reasoner, he who scoffs ; 
And lest some mind should slip and fall, 
. The rulers settle things for all. 

Who can attain the good and true 
Except the grand and fearless few, 
Who, piercing through the tainted air, 
Have found a way to climb the stair? 

And they, poor souls, are pitied still? 
As visions of their wayward will ; 
But in a hundred years or more 
They're fetish gods whom we adore. 



SHAKESPEARE. 23 

Can we not claim our high estate, 
And bid defiance to our fate, 
As lords of earth, and air and sea, 
Assert onr royal pedigree ? 

Conquering the winds by human will, 
As one of old, with " Peace be still ! " 
The earth herself might change her course 
As thrilled by strange electric force. 

All elements are ours at birth, 
Were we " en rapport " with the earth , 
Her, seas, her lands, her winds, her waves, 
Would be our servants and our slaves. 

Crush your weakness, grasp your power ! 
Assert your godhood hour by hour ! 
Conquer, aspire, adore, ascend ! 
A glorious kingdom crowns the end. 



SHAKESPEARE, 



GERVINUS. 



I cannot desire to offer these reflections as a trifling 
recreation, for they treat of one of the richest and most im- 
portant subjects which could be chosen. They concern a 
man who, by nature, was so lavishly endowed, that even 
there where the standard by which to estimate him was 
most wanting, an innate genius within him was ever antici- 
pated, and they admired in him a spirit unconscious of 
itself; while those who understood how to penetrate into 
his works with an unprejudiced mind, agreed more and more 
in the slowly acquired conviction, that, in whatever branch 
of knowledge it might be, no age or nation could easily ex- 



24= erobisher's serial readings. 

hibit a second, in whom the riches of genius, natural en- 
dowment, original talent, and versatility of power, were so 
great as in him, and who made the freest use of these liberal 
gifts of nature. Shakespeare was filled with the conviction, 
and uttered it in various expressions, that nature has given 
nothing to man, but has only lent ; that she only gives him, 
that he should give again. His works have often been 
called a secular bible ; in them the world and human nature 
can be seen as in a mirror! These are no exaggerated ex- 
pressions, but reasonable, well-founded opinions. 

To be engaged earnestly and eagerly with such a man re- 
wards every trouble and demands every effort. He is ever 
new, and cannot satiate. Not only he may but he must be 
often read, and read with the accuracy with which we are 
accustomed at school to read the old classics; otherwise one 
seizes not even the outer shell, much less the inner kernel. 
To approach him closer demands honest industry and 
earnest endeavor. 

Such is not only the experience of every single man but 
of the whole world. For two hundred and fifty years have 
men toiled over this poet; they have not grown weary, 
digging in his works as in a mine, to bring to light all the 
noble metal they contain; and those who were most active, 
were humble enough at last to declare that scarcely a single 
passage of this rich mine was yet exhausted. And almost 
two centuries of this time had passed away before the men 
appeared who first recognized Shakespeare's entire merit and 
capacity, and divested his pure noble form of the confusion 
of prejudices which had veiled and disfigured it. 

How was it that this poet should so long remain an 
enigma to the whole literary world and history ? That so 
extraordinary a man should be so tardily appreciated, and 
even yet by many be so imperfectly understood, — -a poet who 
was in no way indistinct concerning himself, and whom, in- 
deed many of his contemporaries seem to have fully valued. 

The cause of the tardy appreciation of our poet lies 
before all in this, that he is an extraordinary man; the or- 



THE REVENGE OE THE FLOWERS. 25 

dinary alone is comprehended quickly, the commonplace 
only is free from misconception. 

Shakespeare's works should properly only be explained by 
representation. For that and that alone were they written, 
we read them and do not see them. 



THE REVENGE OF THE FLOWERS. 



freiligrath— (German), translated eor the "serial 

READINGS " BY MRS. E. E. ELLET. 



On her couch of snowy cushions, 
In her sleep the maiden lay ; 

Closely cling her soft, brown lashes 
To the cheeks where rose-tints play. 

By the bed, ornate and gleaming, 
i Stands the silver vase, to bear 

Gathered wealth of flowery treasures, 
' Fresh plucked, glowing, rich and rare. 

Like an unseen cloud the fragrance 
Wanders all the chamber round, 

Where to summer's cooling breezes 
No admittance can be found. 

Undisturbed the deepest stillness ! 

Hark ! a sudden murmur light 
'Mong the flowers and soft green leaflets, 

As if wings expand for flight. 

And from out each flowery chalice, 
From the blossoms' glowing breast, 

Phantoms robed in mist are floating, 
Some in shining armor dressed. 

2 



2e frobisher's serial readings. 

From the Kose's heart one rises, 
Slender, pale, with eyes of scorn ; 

Back her airy locks are streaming, 
Decked with pearls like dews of morn. 

From the Monk's-hood's sturdy helmet, 
Circled with its leaves of green, 

Steps a knight in harness courtly, 
With a stalwart warrior's mien. 

O'er his brow a plume is nodding, 
Silvery, from the heron's wing; 

From the Lily, veiled in vapor, 
Elfin forms like fairies spring. 

From the Tulip's gorgeous petals, 
One who Moorish soldier seems, 

Dark and haughty ; in his turban 
Green a golden crescent gleams. 

One from out the Crown Imperial, 
Bears a sceptre, bold and free ; 

And his sword-girt, martial huntsman, 
Issues from the Fleur-de-lis. 

From the leaves of the Narcissus 
Floats a youth of slender grace ; 

O'er the couch he drops soft kisses 
On the slumbering maiden's face. 

Eound her now in circles airy, 

Twine the sprites their fairy ring ; 

And while floating in the mazes, 
Thus they to their victim sing : 

" Maiden, from our genial birth-soil, 
Us thy ruthless hand has torn, 

Doomed us, in this vase — our prison- 
Withering, soon to die forlorn. 



THE REVEKGE OF THE FLOWERS. 27 

"Oh! how joyously we nourished 

On our mother's verdant breast ! 
Where the sunlight through the foliage 

Came to warm our beauteous nest. 

"Where the zephyr's vernal breathing 

O'er our heads caressing swept ; 
Where we sported in the moonlight. 

While the forest warblers slept. 

" Dews and gentle showers refreshed us ; 

Here we pant in noisome cell ; 
We must fade, bni ere we perish, 

Vengeance be our sad farewell ! " 

Ceased the song ; the phantoms, bending 
Bound the maid, in circles close ; 
And again the effusive murmur 
'Mid the heavy silence rose 

Panting like a smothered tempest, 
While the maiden's cheek grows pale, 

As the flower-breaths, breathing on her, 
Wrap her in a vapory veil. 

When the morn, illumined the chamber, 

Vanished were the shapes of ill; 
And a fair form on the cushions 

Lay all white, and cold, and still ! 

She, a flower as fair and fragile, 
Yielded with the flowers her breath ; 

Lay beside her faded sisters : 
Their revenge had been her death I 



28 frobisher's serial readings. 

PKOFESS^K OF SIGNS. 

When James the VI. removed to London he was waited on 
by the Spanish Ambassador, who had a crotchet in his head, 
that there should be a Professor of Signs in every kingdom. 
He lamented to the king, that no country in Europe had 
such a professor, and that, even for himself, he was deprived 
of the pleasure of communicating his ideas in that manner. 
The king replied, "Why, I have a Professor of Signs in the 
northernmost college of my dominions, at Aberdeen, but it is 
a great way off, perhaps 600 miles." " Were it 10,000 leagues 
I am determined to see him." The king saw that he had 
committed himself, and wrote to the University, stating the 
case, and asking the Professors to put him off in some way, 
or make the best of him. The Ambassador went — was re- 
ceived with great solemnity, and soon inquired which of them 
had the honor to be the Professor of Signs. 

He was told the Professor was absent, in the Highlands, 
and would return, nobody knew when. " I will await his re- 
turn, though it be a year." Seeing this would not do, as 
they had to entertain him at great expense, they contrived 
a stratagem. 

There was one Sandy, a butcher, blind in one eye, a droll 
fellow, with some wit and roguery about him. They told 
him the story/ instructed him to be a Professor of Signs ; but 
not to speak a word under pain of losing the promised five 
pounds for his success. 

To the great joy of the Ambassador, he was informed that 
the Professor would be home the next day. 

Sandy was dressed in a wig and gown, and placed in a 
chair of state in one of the college halls. The Ambassador 
was conducted to Sandy's door and shown in, while all the 
Professors waited in another room in suspense and with anxi- 
ety for the success of their scheme. 

The Ambassador approached Sandy and held up one finger, 
Sandy held up two ; the Ambassador held up three, Sandy 
clenched his fist and looked stern. The Ambassador then 



PROFESSOR OF SIGNS. 29 

took an orange from his pocket and held it up, Sandy took 
a barley-cake from his pocket and held that. The Ambassa- 
dor then bowed and returned to the other Professors, who 
anxiously inquired the result. 

" He is a wonderful man, a perfect miracle of knowledge ; 
he is worth all the wealth of the Indies." 

" Well," inquired the Professors, " tell us the particulars." 

" Why," the Ambassador replied, " I held up one finger, 
denoting there is one God; he held up two, signifying that 
there are Father and Son. I held up three to indicate the 
Holy Trinity; he clenched his fist to show that these three 
are one. I then showed him an orange, to illustrate the 
goodness of God in giving to his creatures the luxuries as 
well as the necessaries of life ; and this most wonderful 
philosopher presented a piece of bread to show that the staff 
of life is preferable to every luxury." 

The Professors were, of course, highly delighted, and the 
Ambassador departed for London to thank the king for the 
honor of knowing a Professor of Signs. 

The Professors then called upon Sandy to give his version 
of the interview. 

"The rascal!" said Sandy. "What do you think he did 
first ? He held up one finger, as much as to say you have 
only one eye. Then I held up two, to show that I could see 
as much with one as he could with two. And then the fel- 
low held up three fingers, to say that we had but three eyes 
between us. That made me mad, and I doubled up my fist 
to give him a whack for his impudence, and I would have 
done it but for my promise to you not to offend him. Yet 
that was not the end of his provocations; but he showed 
me an orange, as much as to say, your poor, rocky, beggarly, 
cold country cannot produce that. I showed him an oat- 
meal bannock that I had in my pocket to let him know that 
I did na' care a farthing for all his trash, and signs neither, 
sae lang as I hae this. And by all that's guid, I'm angry 
yet that I did not thrash the hide off the scoundrel." 

So much for two ways of understanding a thing. 



30 frobisher's serial readings. 



HALF A CENTURY AGO. 



MRS. LILLIE DEVEREUX BLAKE. 



The sun shone brightly on the hills, 
And on the Hudson's stately flow, 

One summer morning, gone and faded, 
Half a century ago. 

The soft breeze whispered through a grove 
Of graceful locusts, swaying slow 

Their tufted crowns of feathery leaflets 
Half a century ago. 

While all beneath, upon the grass, 
The checkered light, with changing glow, 

Played, noiselessly as fairy dancers.. 
Half a century ago. 

From grove to river spread the lawn 
Beyond an ancient mansion low, 

All gently sloping to the water, 
Half a century ago. 

The roses blushed along the bank, 
The tangled vines drooped off below, 

Till trailing in the rippling wavelets. 
Half a century ago. 

And on the lawn two laughing girls 

With two young men walked to and fro, 

For life was pleasant in the summer, 
Half a century ago. 

At last, gay Bessie sudden asked, 
With merry mischief all aglow, 

" Why not send out for dear Maria ?" 
(Half a century ago.) 



HALF A CENTURY AGO. 31 

Then up sprang Sam with eyes aflame, 

" For fair Maria I will go." 
For Sam adored the blue-eyed maiden, 

Half a century ago. 

At this, aroused to jealous wrath, 

Out flashed the words of stalwart Joe, 

" I, too, will go for sweet Maria," 
Half a century ago. 

The girls exchanged a merry glance; 

"As you decide, it shall be so." 
They knew the secret of these heroes, 

Half a century ago. 

Behold them now, through shade and shine, 
The gray horse leading onward slow, 

The rivals gone to seek Maria, 
Half a century ago. 

The river flowed beneath the hill, 

The song-birds warbled sweet and low, 

The hours crept on toward the nooning, 
Half a century ago. 

The ladies left upon the lawn, 

Oft wondered, strolling to and fro, 
"What will she do with both her lovers ?" 

Half a century ago. 

Anon, along the locust grove, 

And out beneath the noontide glow, 

The three appeared, with happy faces, 
Half a century ago. 

The lady sat upon the horse, 

On either hand walked Sam and Joe, 

As guardians of the fair young beauty, 
Half a century ago. 



32 frobisher's serial readings. 

A few steps more, the maid slid down, 
As light as falling wreath of snow, 

And ran to greet her young companions, 
Half a century ago. 

" Now, tell us, dear," laugh-loving Bess 
The saucy question whispered low, 

"How did you so please both your lovers? " 
Half a century ago. 

The beauty shook her dainty curls, 
" I talked through all the ride with Joe, 

But then I let Sam hold my hand, dear," 
Half a century ago. 



SISTEE HELEN". 



GABRIEL DANTE ROSSETTI. 



" Why did you melt your waxen man, 
Sister Helen ? 
To-day is the third since you began." 
" The time was long, yet the time ran, 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Three clays to-day, between Hell and Heaven I) 

" But if yon have done your work aright, 
Sister Helen, 
You'll let me play, for you said I might." 
" Be very still in your play to-night, 

Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven !) 



SISTER HELEK. 33 

" You said it must melt ere vesper bell, 
Sister Helen ; 
If now it be molten all is well." 
"Even so; nay, peace! You cannot tell, 
Little brother." 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
what is this hetiveen Hell and Heaven?) 

"Oh, the waxen knave was plump to-day, 
Sister Helen ; 
How like dead folk he has dropped away ; " 
" Nay, now, of the dead what can you say, 
Little brother?" 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
Wliat of the dead between Hell and Heaven ?) 

" See, see, the sunken pile of wood, 

Sister Helen, 
Shines through the thinned wax red as blood!" 
" Nay, now, when looked you yet on blood, 

" Little brother?" 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
Hoiv pale she is betiueen Hell and Heaven !) 

" Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore, 
Sister Helen, 
And I'll play without the gallery door." 
" Aye, let me rest ; I'll lie on the floor, 
Little brother" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Wliat rest to-night hetiueen Hell and Heaven ?) 

" Here, high up in the balcony, 

Sister Helen, 
The moon flies face to face with me." 
" Aye, look and say whatever you see, 

Little brother." 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
What sight to-night bettueen Hell and Heaven f) 
2* 



34 frobisher's serial readings. 

" Outside it's merry in the wind's wake, 

Sister Helen ; 
In the shaken trees the chill stars shake," 
" Hush, heard you a horse- tread as you spake, 
Little brother?" 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
What sound to-night between Hell and Heaven ?) 

" I hear a horse-tread and I see, 

Sister Helen, 
Three horsemen that ride terribly." 
" Little brother, whence came the three, 
Little brother?" 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven 

" They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, 
Sister Helen, 
And one draws nigh, but two are afar." 
"Look, look! do you know them who they are, 
Little brother ? " 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Who should they be, bettueen Hell and Heaven f) 

" Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, 
Sister Helen, 
For I know the white mane on the blast." 
" The hour has come, has come at last, 

Little brother ! " 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven !) 

" He has made a sign and called, Halloo ! 

Sister Helen, 
And he says that he would speak with you." 
" Oh, tell him I fear the frozen dew, 

Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven f) 



SISTER HELEtf. 35 

"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, 

Sister Heleu, 
That Keith of Euern's like to die." 
" And he and thou, and thou and I, 

Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
And they and we, between Hell and Heaven !) 

"For three days now he has lain abed, 
Sister Helen, 
And he prays in torment to be dead." 
" The thing may chance, if he have prayed, 
Little brother!" 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
If lie have prayed, betiveen Hell and Heaven!) 

" But he has not ceased to cry to-day, 

Sister Helen, 
That you should take your curse away." 
" My prayer was heard, — he need but pray, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Shall God not hear, let ween Hell and Heaven?) 

" But he says, till you take back your ban, 

Sister Helen, 
His soul would pass, yet never can." 
" Nay, then, shall I slay a living man, 

Little brother ? " 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
A living soul, between Hell and Heaven !) 

" But he calls for ever on your name, 

Sister Helen, 
And says that he melts before a flame." 
" My heart for his pleasure fared the same, 

Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven I) 



36 frobisher's serial readings. 

" Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast, 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white plume in the blast." 
" The hour, the sweet hour I forecast, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Is the hour siveet, between Hell and Heaven ?) 

" He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, 

Sister Helen ; 
But his words are drowned in the wind's course." 
" Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce, 
Little brother ! " 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
A word ill-heard, bettueen Hell and Heaven !) 

" Oh., he says, Keith of Euern's cry, 
Sister Helen, 

Is ever to see you ere he die." 

" He sees me in earth, in moon, and sky, 
Little brother ! " 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 

Earth, moon, and shy, between Hell and Heaven!) 

" He sends a ring and a broken coin, 
Sister Helen, 

And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." 

" What else he broke will he ever join, 

Little brother ? " 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 

Oh, never more, bekveen Hell and Heaven !) 

" He yields you there and craves full pain, 

Sister Helen, 
You pardon him in his mortal pain." 
" What else he took will he give again, 

Little brother?" 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
No more again, between Hell and Heaven I) 



SISTEK HELEN. 37 

" He calls your name in an agony, 

Sister Helen, 
That even dead Love must weep to see." 
" Hate, born of Love, is blind as lie, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven!) 

" Oh! its Keith of Keith now that rides fast, 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white hair on the blast.'' 
" The short, short hour will soon be past, 

Little brother ! " 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
Will soon be past, betiveen Hell and Heaven!) 

" He looks at me, and he tries to speak, 

Sister Helen, 
But oh ! his voice is sad and w r eak!" 
" What here should the mighty Baron seek, 

Little brother ? " 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
Is this the end betiveen Hell and Heaven !) 

" Oh ! his son still cries, if you forgive, 

Sister Helen ; 
The body dies, but the soul shall live. 
" Eire shall forgive me, as I forgive, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
As she forgives, betiveen Hell and Heaven !) 

" Oh ! he prays you, as his heart would rive, 

Sister Helen, 
To save his dear son's soul alive." 
" Nay, flame cannot slay it ; it shall thrive, 

Little brother ! " 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!) 



38 frobisher's serial readings. 

" He cries to you, kneeling in the road, 

Sister Helen, 
To go with him for the loye of God ! " 
" The way is long to his son's abode, 

Little brother!" 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
The xoay is long between Hell and Heaven !) 

" 0, sister Helen, you heard the bell, 

Sister Helen ! 
More loud than the vesper-chime it fell." 
. *' No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
His dying knell, between, Hell and Heaven ! 

" Alas ! but I fear the heavy sound, 

Sister Helen ; 
Is it in the sky or in the ground ? " 
" Say, have they turned their horses round, 

Little brother ? " 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
What would she more, between Hell and Heaven 

" They have raised the old man from his knee, 
Sister Helen, 

And they ride in silence hastily." 

" More fast the naked soul doth flee, 

Little brother ! " 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

The naked soul between Hell and Heaven!) 

" Oh, the wind is sad in the iron chill, 

Sister Helen, 
And weary, sad, they look by the hill." 
" But Keith of Euern's sadder still, 

Little brother ! " 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Most- sad of all between Hell and Heaven !) 



TOM o'cokhor's cat. 39 

" See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, 

Sister Helen, 
And the flames are winning np apace ! " 
" Yet here they burn but for a space, 

Little brother ! » 
( Mother, Mary Mother, 
Sere for a space, between Sell and Heaven !) 

" Ah ! what white thing at the door has crossed, 

Sister Helen ? 
Ah ! what is this that sighs in the frost ? " 
"A soul that's lost as mine is lost, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Lost, lost, all lost, between Sell and Heaven /) 



TOM O'CONNOK'S CAT. 

There was a man called Tom O'Connor, and he had a cat 
equal to a dozen rat-traps and worth her weight in goold, in 
savin' his sacks of meal from the thievery of the rats and 
mice. This cat was a great pet, and was so up to everything, 
and had so sinsible a look in her eyes, Tom were sartin sure 
the cat knew ivery word that was said to her. 

She used to sit by him at breakfast ivery morning, and 
the eloquent cock in her tail, as she used to rub against his 
leg, said, " Give me some milk, Tom O'Connor," as plain as 
print; and the plenitude of her purr, spoke a gratitude be- 
yond language. Well, one morning, Tom was going to the 
neighboring town, to market, and to bring home shoes to the 
childhre, out of the price of his corn ; and sure eno', before 
he sat down to breakfast, there was Tom takiii' the measure 
of the childhre's feet by cuttin' notches on a bit of stick; 
and the wife gave him so many cautions about a nate fit for 
" Billy's purty feet," that Tom in his anxiety to nick the 
closest possible measure, cut the child's toe. That disturbed 



40 frobisher's serial readings. 

the harmony of the party, and Tom had to breakfast alone, 
while mother was tryin' to cure Billy — to make a heal of his 
toe. Well, all the time Tom was takin' measure, the cat was 
observin' him with that luminous peculiarity in her eye, for 
which her tribe is remarkable; and when Tom sat down to 
breakfast, the cat rubbed against him more vigorously than 
iver, and whin he kipt niver mindin' her, she made a sort of 
cater waulin' growl and gave Tom a dab of her claws that 
wint clane through his leathers. " IsTow, " said Tom, with a 
jump, "by this and by that, ye dhrew the blood out iv me," 
says he. " You wicked divil ! tish, go long ! " makin' a strike 
at her. With that the cat gave a reproachful look, and her 
eyes glared like mail-coach lamps in a fog. The cat gave a 
mysterious "miaou," fixed a penetrating glance on Tom, 
and distinctly uttered his name. 

Tom felt every hair on his head as stiff as a pump-handle; 
he returned a searching look at the cat, who quietly pro- 
ceeded with a sort of twang : 

" Tom O'Connor " says she. 

" Och the Saints be good to me," says he ; " if it isn't spak- 
in' she is." 

" Tom O'Connor," says she again. 

" Yis, ma'am," says Tom. 

" Come here," says she, " the laste taste in private ; " says 
she, risin' on her hams, an' beckonin' him wid her paw out 
iv the door, wid a wink, an' a toss iv the head, equal to a 
milliner. 

Tom didn't know whether he was on his head or his heels ; 
but he followed the cat, and off she wint and squatted on the 
hedge of a little paddock back of the house. 

Well, divil a word Tom could say with the fright. 

" Tom," says the cat, " I've a great respect for you." 

" Thank you, ma'am," says Tom. 

" You're goin' off to the town," says she, " to buy shoes 
for the childhre, and niver thought on gettin' me a pair." 

" You ? " says Tom. 

"Yes, me; and the neighbors wonder, Tom O'Connor, 



Tom o'coxxor's cat. 41 

that a respectable man like you allows your cat to go about 
the counthry barefutted," says she. 

" Is it a cat to wear shoes ? " says Tom. 

" Why not ?" says she; "doesn't horses wear shoes? an' 
I've a purtier fut nor a horse ! " 

"Faix, she spakes like a woman!" says Tom, "But, 
ma'am, I don't see how you cu'd fasten a shoe on you ! " says 
he. 

" Lave that to me," says the cat. 

"As for the horses, mem, you know their shoes is fastened 
on wid nails ! " 

" Ah, you stupid thafe," says the cat, a an' hav'nt I illigant 
nails of my own ? " an' wid that she gave him a dab wid her 
claws. 

" Och, murther," roared Tom. 

" No more oy yer palaver, Misther O'Connor," says the 
cat ; "'just be off an' get me the shoes." 

" Tare an' ouns ! " says Tom, " what 'ill become ov me if I 
am to get shoes for me cats ?" 

So Tom wint off to the town, as he pretended — for he saw 
the cat watchin' him thro' a hole in the hedge. But whin he 
came to a turn in the road, the dickens he minded the mar- 
ket, but wint off to the Squire's to swear examinations agin' 
the cat. But whin he was asked to relate the evints ov the 
morning, his brain was so bewildered between his corn an' 
the cat, an' the child's toe. that he made a confused account. 

"Begin your story from the beginning," said the magis- 
trate. 

"Well, — plaze yer honor," — says Tom, "I was goin' to 
market, this morning, to sell the child's — corn — I beg yer 
pardon — my own toes — I mane, sir," 

" Sell yer toes ? " said the Squire. 

"Xo, sir; takin' the cat to market — I mane." 

" Take a cat to market ? " said the Squire ; " you're drunk, 
man." 

"No,— yer honor — only confused, for when the toes began 
to spake to me — the cat, I mane — I was bothered clane " 



42 fbobisher's serial readings. 

" The cat speak to you ? " said the Squire. " Phew ! worse 
than before — you're drunk." 

"No, yer honor, — it's on the strength ov the cat I come 
to spake to you ! " 

" I think it's on the strength ov a pint oy whiskey, Tom ! " 

" By the vartue on my oath, yer honor, it's nothih' but the 
cat." Then Tom told him about the affair, an' the Squire 
was astonished. The bishop of the diocese and the priest 
ov the parish came in and had a tough argument ov two 
hours on the subject, one saying she must be a witch, an' the 
other, she was only enchanted. The magistrate pulled down 
all the law books in his library, and looked over the laws, 
but he found nothing agin' cats. " There's the Alien Act," 
says the Squire ; " an' perhaps she's a Frinch spy in disguise." 

" She spakes like a French spy, sure enough," says Tom. 

" Fve a fresh idea," says the magistrate. 

"Faix, it won't kape frish long this weather," says Tom. 

"We'll hunt her undher the .game laws," says the magis- 
trate. "Meet me at the cross roads in the mornin', an' we'll 
have the hounds ready." 

Well, off Tom went home, racking his brains for an ex- 
cuse for not bringin' the shoes; an' he saw the cat canter- 
ing up to him, half a mile before he got home. 

" Where's the shoes, Tom ? " says she. 

" I've not got 'em to-day, ma'am," says he. 

"Is that the way you keep your promise, Tom?" says 
she. "I'll tell you what it is, Tom, I'll tear the eyes out ov 
the childhre, if you don't get me shoes." 

"Whist, whist!" says Tom, frightened out ov his life. 
"Don't be in a passion, pussy! The shoemaker hadn't a 
shoe nor a last to make one to fit you, an' he says I must 
bring you into the town for him to take your measure." 

" An' whin ? " says the cat. 

" To-morrow," says Tom. 

" It's well ye said that, Tom, or the divil an eye I'd lave 
in yer family this night," said the cat, an' off she hopped. 

Tom thrimbled at the wicked look she gave him. 



tom o'coknok's cat. 43 

" Eemember ! " she said, over the hedge, wid a bitter 
caterwaul. 

Well, sure eno', the nixt mornin' tjiere, was the cat lickin' 
herself as nate as a new pin to go into the town, an' out 
came Tom wid a bag under his arm. 

" Now, git into this, an' I'll carry you into town," says 
Tom, opening the bag. 

"Shure, I can walk wid you," says the cat. 

" Oh, that wouldn't do," says Tom, " the people is slan- 
derous, an' shure it w'd rise ugly remarks if I was seen with 
a cat aftlier me. A dog is a man's companion by nature, 
but cats doesn't stand to raison." 

Well, the cat got into thabag, an' off set Tom to the cross 
roads, whin the Squire, an' the huntsmen, an' the hounds, 
an' the pack ov people were waitin'. 

"What's that bag you have at yer back?" says the 
Squire, — makin' believe he knew nothing. 

" Oh, nothing at all," says Tom, with a wink. 

" Oh, there's something in that bag," says the Squire. 
" Let me see it ! " 

" If you bethray me, Tom O'Connor," says the cat, in a 
low voice, "by this an' by that, I'll niver spake to you 
agin ! " 

"I've been missin' my praties ov late," said the Squire, 
" an' I'd just like to examine that bag." 

" Is it doubting my characther you'd be, sir," says Tom ? 

" Tom, your sowl ! " says the voice in the sack. " If you 
let the cat out ov the bag I'll murther you ! " 

The Squire insisted on searching, an' laid hold ov the bag, 
Tom pretinding to fight all the time ; but, my jewel, before 
two minutes they shook the cat out ov the bag, an' off she 
wint wid her tail as big as a sweeping brush, an' the Squire, 
wid a thunderin' view halloo afther her, clapt the dogs at 
her heels, an' away they wint for their bare life. Never was 
there seen such runnin' as that. The cat made for a shakin' 
bog, an' there the riders were all thrown out, ban in' the 
huntsman who had a web-footed horse, an' the praist ; an' 



44 frobisher's serial readings. 

they stuck to the hunt like wax ; an' they said the cat give 
a twist as the foremost dog closed with her on the border 
ov the bog, for he gave her a nip in the flank. Still she 
wint on, towards an old mad cabin in the middle ov the bog; 
an' they saw her jump in at the window, an' up came the 
dogs an' set up a terrible howling. The huntsman alighted 
an' wint into the house, an' what should he see but an old 
hag lying in bed in the corner. 

" Did you see a cat come in here ? " says he. 

" Oh, n-o-o-o," squealed the old hag in a trembling voice. 
" There's no cat here ! " 

" Yelp ! yelp ! yelp ! " wint the dogs outside. 

" Oh, keep the dogs out ov this," squealed the old hag. 
" Oh-o-o," an' the huntsman saw her eyes glare under the 
blanket just like a cat's. 

" Hillo ! " says he, pullin' down the blanket, an' there was 
her flank all in a gore of blood! "Ow, ow, ow, you old 
witch an' divil, is it you — you owld cat ? " says he, opening 
the door. 

In rushed the dogs ; up jumped the witch, an' changin' 
to a cat before their eyes, out she darted thro' the window ; 
but she could not escape, an' the dogs gobbled her while 
you could say Jack Robinson. 

But the most remarkable part ov the story is, that the 
pack of hounds, after having eaten the enchanted cat, the 
divil a thing they would ever hunt afterwards but mice. 



SORROW. 

FOB THE " SERIAL READINGS. 



AFTER THE DANISH OF CHR. WILSTER. BY JOHN VOLCK. 



One day while Jupiter, the great Olympian, 
Sat listening to the glorious hymns of mirth 

Ascending thro' the airy clouds beneath him, 
A maid rose to Olympus from the earth. 



SORROW. 45 

Upon her shoulders her night-black ringlets fell, 

Pale was her cheek, and full of tears her eye ; 
Her graceful head hung down upon her bosom 

As slowly she the god of gods drew nigh. 
* Despair not, child ! " quoth Jupiter, the mighty ; 
" Come, lay thy burden down before our throne; 
In vain thou shalt not seek for consolation ; 

Unfold thy heart, and make thy trouble known." 
Then she, her eyes uplifting: "I am Sorrow; 

I dwell among the children of the dust. 
My peace has gone ; I long for rest and solace, 

And hope in thee; for thou alone art just. 
Fate destined me to live among the mortals, 

To bring forth tears, to mingle grief with mirth, 
And, therefore, though I am a goddess' daughter, 

I have no worshiper upon the earth. 
Behold! on all sides temples are erected; 

Sweet incense is ascending to the skies ; 
To every god and demi-god and goddess 

Doth mankind offer up a sacrifice. 
But me they hate, avoid, and I must wander 

With grief in heart, forsaken and alone ; 
Therefore I left the earth, rose to Olympus, 

And humbly here I kneel before thy throne." 
Then, with a smile, the god spoke to the maiden: 

" Sorrow, listen, and in peace arise ! 
Thou shouldst not envy us our lofty temples, 

Nor e'en the incense rising to the skies. 
The sacrifice that man to thee doth offer 

Is greater far ; it is the holy tear ! 
A mother's tear, shed for her dying infant; 

A maiden's tear, shed at her lover's bier 
This sacrifice maid was never offered 

From vanity ; it needs i*o sacred hall. 
The tears which from the depths of hearts are flowing 

Make sacred every place on which they fall. 



46 ebobisheb's SEBIAL BEADI^GS. 

And therefore was no temple consecrated 
To honor thee ; but thou receivest no less ; 

For young and old bestow on thee, Sorrow, 
The noblest gift, the purest they possess." 



FALLING STARS. 



translated (from Ber 'anger) by mbs. e. f. ellet. 



" Shephebd, thou say'st there rules our doom 

Some star that shines in yonder skies ? " 
" True, child, but in her veil of gloom 

Night hides the secret from our eyes." 
" Shepherd, in yon blue fields afar 

Thou read'st the lore the heavens display; 
Say, what betides yon falling star 

That shoots, and shoots, and fades away?" 

" My child, a mortal breathed his last; 
His star from heaven that instant fell; 
'Mid jovial friends his hours were passed, 

And wine and music's festal swell, 
The flowing bowl, with flowers bedight, 
Still mantles by his senseless clay; 
" See! yet another falling light 

That shoots, and shoots, and fades away ! " 

" There passed a maiden, pure and fair ; 
A lover's hope, a father's pride; 
The wreath upon her golden hair 

That crowns the tender, happy bride. 
Fresh from the vow of nuptial rite, 

And blessed she took to heaven her way/' 
" See! yet another falling light 

That shoots, and shoots, and fades away." 



PALLING STAKS. 47 

" An infant prince to empire born, 
On whom a train of courtiers wait, 
Then closed his eyes on earthly morn 
And gave to Death his royal state. 
Funereal pomp, the pageant's sight, 

Now sate the crowds who owned his sway;" 
" But, see ! another falling light 

That shoots, and shoots, and fades away! " 

" My child !, how fierce its lurid glare ! 
A tyrant fell from power just then ; 
He mocked a suffering land's despair 
That with his death is freed again. 
Ambition's dream of wealth and might, 
Has paled as dies the sunset's ray ; " 
" See ! yet another falling light 

That shoots, and shoots, and fades away ! " 

"A benefactor of the poor, 

My child, was then restored to heaven, 
A meagre dole from others' store, 

By Ms kind hand his all was given. 
The houseless throng, this very night, 

To seek his door, their friend and stay ; " . 
■ " But, see ! another falling light 

That shoots, and shoots, and fades away ! " 

" Just then a mighty monarch fell ; 

Oh, guard thine innocence, my child ! 
Nor yield thee to the baleful spell 

Of stars enwrapped in splendors wild. 
If, useless, thine but shines to blight, 
At thy last hour shall mortals say, 
" 'Tis but another fleeting light 

That shoots, and shoots, and fades away ! " 



48 frobisher's sebial readings 



A FKAGMENT. 



ELLA DIETZ. 



" I shall never see white roses again without thinking of 
him," said Delia. 

"Nor I," sobbed Florrie; "poor old Hector, he always 
wore one ever since that evening Willow gave him the white 
bud from her hair." 

Delia had a trick of giving nicknames, and because I had 
rather a drooping way, she called me Willow. 

I left them there, and went to my own room. I could not 
hang over that lifeless form as they did. It did not seem 
like Hector to me. He was the embodiment of strength, 
and life, and beauty. I kissed the cold lips just once, but 
when they remained cold and motionless, and failed to thrill 
back the love mine gave them, I knew that my darling was 
gone. 

I sat and looked from my window to the garden below — 
my window, surrounded by the clustering white roses that 
I had planted and trained long, long before Hector came. 
I looked at the mark on the ground where they had laid him, 
hoping against hope, until the Doctor discovered that dark 
red spot near his temple, and then we knew the sea had not 
taken my darling. We understood his sudden sinking as 
the boat capsized ; something, somehow, had struck him. 
I thought of it all again, and of all the short three months 
we had known each other, and how that very morning 
Delia had said, as he sauntered down the path, "He seems 
like a Greek god in all his glorious strength, with immortal 
youth shining from his eyes." 

And Aunt Mary grumbled, " Yes, there is something 
heathenish about him." 

And now — w T as he not immortal ? My Hector. 

I threw myself on the bed, and gazed out at the stars, 
and heard the sea sobbing afar off — sobbing for him, I 



A FRAGMENT. 49 

thought, her own child, as strong and daring as her very 
self. How often I had watched him swimming among the 
breakers until he seemed part of them, clasped close in 
their embrace, rising and falling with them, and now — ah, 
darling ! 

The soft summer breeze stole through the open windows ; 
the roses seemed giving out their very hearts in delicious 
odors, so subtle, so tender. They seemed to contain all the 
sweetness, the happiness of my life, and fling it together 
with a bitter sense of its loss at my feet. Ah ! how my 
poor heart ached and throbbed. And then, as if the fra- 
grance itself had become vocal, there came a voice — the 
sweetest, tenderest voice that ever spoke — calling, " Willow, 
Willow!" It whispered in my very ear, as I breathed the 
breath of the roses, and yet seemed sobbing from the sea 
far off. By some strange power, and as if carried by the 
roses' odors, I floated toward it, nearer, nearer. I was wafted 
down to the very depths of the sea. I sank, and was folded 
in his arms, clasped close and safe ; and all around us the 
sea, green and cool, and above the stars and sweet white 
roses. 

I knew then all his love, more than I had known or 
dreamed. We did not speak; thought answered thought. 
The blow from the boom had stunned him before he ever 
reached the water ; and so he passed away unknowing, and 
woke to call for me, to find me answering to his call. 

At length we rose, moved by our own wills, and floated 
through the ether upward, upward to the very stars. All 
elements were part of us, and we of them ; but as our 
bliss seemed perfect and complete, I felt myself drawn down- 
ward and away. I reached my arms in vain. I seemed to 
slide from his embrace, and though each tried to clasp the 
other, we w r ere torn apart. Long, long after we w r ere parted, 
his sad eyes saw and answered mine ; but at last they faded 
too, and only a white star left were they had been. And 
now, my beloved, was indeed gone. 

I sank on my bed, and slept a deep long sleep — a sleep of 

3 



50 feobishee's seeial readings. 

forgetfulness, and when I awoke there were the four walls 
of my little room. I lifted my hand and saw the slender 
fingers thin and white. It fell back of its own weight. I 
tried to move, but could not. My eyes wandered, and there 
Aunt Mary sat by the fire knitting. I looked to the win- 
dow ; no roses now, only the bare branches of my trailer, 
leaves and roses gone. What wonder, I thought, when the 
soul is dead ? But then I saw the willows were bare, too. 
The sky was dark, and every now and then the flakes of 
snow gave spiteful little taps upon the pane. It was 
winter. 

Afterwards they told me of my long illness, brain fever, 
and one day Aunt Mary said softly, " Hector is buried in 
the churchyard. We planted a willow near the grave." 

And both the girls got up crying, and left the room. Aud 
Aunt added, "We must be resigned to the will of God/' 

I smiled assent, and I am resigned, for the winter is pass- 
ing, the spring is near, and I know in the balmy days of 
June my trailer will bud and blossom, and in the soft, warm 
nights, when the odors are thick around me, I shall hear 
the dear voice calling, " Willow, Willow!" and I will follow 
it, until his arms clasp close around me, where we will never 
be parted again — never, never. 



THE DYING DRUMMER-BOY. 



BY T. B. THOEPE. 



; Lift me gently, Jim, I'm shot — 
Bullets, rattling down like hail, 

Struck my sheepskin on the spot, 
And my breath began to fail. 

Cold, — a crawling, creeping chill 
Overspread my hands and face, 

But defiant playing still, 
Ruby drops each other trace. 



THE DYI^G DRUMMER-BOY. 51 

" Tell the boys — they saw me fall, 

Knew not how I staggered through, — 
Tell them, Jim, that last roll-call 
Sounded bully, loud and true. 

" Turn me sideways — that will do ; 
Listen now to what I say, 
Brother died at sea ; and you 
Must to mother bear my pay. 

(i Ask the captain six months' due : 
See her, Jim, — and say I'm gone : 
Add to that of words a few, 

Just to cheer her, if she mourn. 

" Selling papers was my trade, 

Till the war down South broke out ; 
Fifty cents a day I made, 
More or less, or thereabout. 

" 'Twas to her I gave it all : 

Eas'd her burdens, smooth'd her lot; 
Sad it is now to recall 

Things I had almost forgot. 

"Down Broadway the streamers went 

Must'ring soldiers, ev'ry day ; 

Papers play'd out — due the rent — 

'Listed with them right away. 

" My old woman first got craz'd ; 

Fum'd and fretted, moan'd and wail'd ; 
Look'd so pitiful and maz'd — 
Eesolution almost fail'd. 

" Then she took another mood; 

Laugh'd to hide her aching pain; 
Bustled round me all she could, 
Choking with the awful strain. 



52 frobisher's seeial readings. 

" Went aboard at Barclay street ; 
Mother hobbled after us, 
Proud her soldier-boy to greet, 
Couldn't make enough of fuss. 

"Waved her handkerchief like mad; 
Shouted as we sailed away : 
4 Hark (her thin lip quiver'd), lad, 
Ne'er forsake your flag, I pray.' 

" Wither'd fingers brush'd a tear ; 

Gray hairs flutter'd, scant and few ; 
Shrill, yet standing on the pier, 
' Serve that flag, red, white, and blue.' 

" Dying, Jim, I'm fain to say 
To the old flag I've been true, 
And her parting words that day, 
1 Don't desert the boys in blue ! ' s 

" If you should live through the muss, 
Jim, you'll tell her of her boy ; 
Foolish details, p'raps, to us, 
Gladden her old heart with joy 

" Gently lay me on the turf, 

Slowly thank you! that will do; 

Like the roaring, swelling surf, 
Now, then ! beat a loud tattoo ! 

" Take my sheepskin, beat it hard ! 
Faster! faster! that sounds well! 
Oh ! it's bully, boys on guard ! 
Hear it! that's my passing knell! 

" Hear you now the reveille ? 
Stop ! the sentinels retire ! 
Challenge not at dawning day, 
When the east is all on fire. 



THE OLD ELM. 53 

"Now, my parting words are said; 
Farewell, sheepskin ! good-bye all ! 
Papers are not for the dead; 

Coming ! — mother, did you call ? " 

Thus he died, and there he rests, 

Sleeping with the noble dead, 
Where the hilltops raise their crests, 

There's his little six-foot bed. 



THE OLD ELM. 

Did it ever come in your way to pass 

The silvery ford with its fringe of grass, 

And threading the lane hard by to see 

The veteran " Elm of Xewbury ? " 

You saw how its roots had grasped the ground, 

As if it had felt the earth went round, 

And fastened them down with determined will, 

To keep it steady and hold it still. 

Its aged trunk, so stately and strong, 

Has braved the blasts as they've swept along, 

Its head has towered, and its arms have spread, 

While more than a hundred years have fled. 

Well, that old elm that is now so grand 

Was once a twig in the rustic hand 

Of a youthful peasant, who went one night 

To visit his love by the tender light 

Of the modest moon, and her twinkling host ; 

While the star that lighted his bosom most 

And gave to his lonely feet their speed 

Abode in a cottage beyond the mead ! 

'Twas the peaceful close of a summers day, 
Its glorious orb had passed away, 



54 frobisher's seeial readings. 

The toil of the field till morn nad ceased, 

Eor a season of rest to man and beast ; 

The mother had silenced her humming wheel, 

The father returned for the evening meal; 

The thanks of one who had chosen the part 

Of the poor in spirit, the meek in heart. 

The good old man in his chair reclined 

At his humble door, with a peaceful mind, 

While the drops from his sunburnt brow were dried 

By the cool sweet air of eventide. 

The son from the yoke had unlocked the bow, 

Dismissing the faithful ox to go 

And graze in the close. He had called the kine 

For their oblation at eve's decline ; 

He'd gathered and numbered the lambs and sheep, 

And fastened them up in their nightly keep. 

He'd stood by the coop, till the hen could bring 

Her huddling brood safe under her wing, 

And made them secure from the hooting owl, 

Whose midnight prey was the clucking fowl. 

When all was finished he sped to the well, 
Where the old gray bucket hastily fell, 
And the clear cold water came up to chase 
The dust of the field from his neck and face, 
And hands, and feet, till the youth began 
To look renewed in the outer man. 
And soon arrayed in his Sunday best, 
The stiff new suit had done the rest ; 
And the hale young lover was on his way, 
Where through the pen and field it lay, 
And over the bramble, the brake, and grass, 
As the shortest cut to the home of his lass. 

It is not recorded how long he stayed 

In the cheerful home of the smiling maid, 



THE OLD ELM. 55 

But when he came out it was late and dark, 

And silent — not even a dog would bark, 

To take from his feelings of loneliness, 

And make the length of his way seem less. 

He thought it was strange that the treacherous moon 

Should have given the world the slip so soon, 

And whether the eyes of the girl had made 

The stars of the sky in his own to fade 

Or not, it certainly seemed to him 

That each grew distant, and small, and dim. 

And he shuddered to think he was near a lane 

To take a long and lonely route — 

For he did not know what fearful sight 

Might come to him through the shadows of night. 

An elm grew close by the cottage eaves, 
So he plucked a twig well clothed with leaves, 
And sallying forth with a supple arm, 
To use as a talisman, parrying harm, 
He felt that though his heart was so big, 
'Twas all the stouter for having the twig; 
For this, he thought, would answer to switch 
The horrors away, as he crossed the ditch, 
The meadow and copse, wherein, perchance, 
A will-o'-the-wisp might wickedly dance. 
And wielding it, keep him from feeling a chill, 
At the menacing voice of the whip-poor-will, 
And his flesh from creeping beside the bog, 
At the harsh bass voice of the viewless frog. 
In short, he felt that the switch would be 
Guard, plaything, business, and company. 

When he got safe home, and joyfully found 

He still was himself, and living, and sound, 

He planted the twig by his family cot, 

To serve as a monument marking the spot 

It had helped him to reach, and what was still more, 

Because it had grown by his fair one's door. 



56 frobisheb's sekial readings. 

The twig took root, and as time flew by, 

Its boughs spread wide, and its head grew high ; 

While the priest's good service had long been done, 

Which made the youth and maiden one 

And their young scions arose and played 

Around the tree, in its leafy shade. 

But many and many a year has fled 

Since they were numbered with the dead, 

And now their names, with moss o'ergrown, 

Are veiled from sight on the church-yard stone, 

That leans away, with a lingering fall, 

And owns the power that levels all 

The works that the hand of man has wrought, 

Brings him to dust, and his name to nought. 

While near in view, and just beyond 

The grassy skirts of the silvery pond, 

In its green old age, stands the noble tree, 

The veteran elm of Newbury. 



MORNING ON THE PINCIAN HILL. 



BY MADAME OCTAYIA WALTON LE VERT. 



Awaking at dawn, and remembering that I had never 
seen Rome from the Monte Pincio by the soft light of the 
early morning, I quickly made my toilette, briskly walked 
up the terraced hill, and seated myself by the balustrade 
overlooking the grand old city. 

Often before at evening I had been here to watch the 
gorgeous sunset. Then the gardens on the summit were 
filled with people, and the lines with hundreds of equipages. 
Now, save a few artists with sketch-book in hand, I was 
alone to enjoy the glorious scene. 



MORNING ON THE PINCIAN HILL. 57 

The cross springing heavenward from the majestic dome 
of St. Peter's was wrapt in a gauze-like drapery of snowy 
mist, while the vast Basilica, the Vatican, the Pantheon, 
and the lofty column of Antoninus were glowing in the rays 
of the morning sunlight. 

The freshness of spring was expressed in every tree, shrub, 
and flower, and birds were singing amid the green foliage. 

Never was the joy of existence greater to me than during 
those three hours of the young day spent upon the Monte 
Pincio. It was not a bright, gay happiness, but a serene, 
sublime feeling; a gratitude to God that I had seen Rome, 
whose glory, even in my childhood, had been as a halo 
around me. Like the fabled wand of the magician, the 
very name of Eome had possessed an electric power, dart- 
ing along from century to century, and calling up visions 
from the past, which fired the imagination while they 
thrilled the soul. That noble city was before me, once the 
home of heroes, patriots, poets, and philosophers. 

Other cities, however vast, are only capitals of countries; 
but Rome seems the metropolis of the world, appealing to 
the hearts of all civilized people as the birthplace of the 
noblest arts, and the spot whereon had been enacted the 
most thrilling incidents in the mighty drama of human life. 

I gazed upon the spectacle before me with reverence, even 
as though I were in a hallowed presence. In scenes like 
these, the past so mingles with the present we are scarcely 
aware how we cross the gulf which separates them ; and 
almost unconscious of its utterance, I find myself murmur- 
ing— 

" May not men some day gaze upon St. Peter's and the 
Vatican, and marking their ruins, say these things were ! " 

Truly has Byron called Rome the " Mobe of Nations," 
for no object more touchingly awakens our sympathies than 
the mother bereft of her children ; and thus it is with Rome, 
no longer grand and prosperous; still our hearts cling 
lovingly and with tender enthusiasm to the memories of 
her departed glories. 

5* 



58 FROBISHER ? S SEEIAL READINGS. 

The day was far advanced ere I could tear myself away 
from the contemplation of the scene. When I reached the 
hotel all was prepared for our departure. Suddenly I re- 
membered an old superstition of the Romans — 

" Whoever shall drink of the waters of Trevi, the last 
hour of their stay in Rome, shall surely come again." 

So I sprang into a carriage, bade the coachman drive 
quickly to the Fountain- of Trevi. There, kneeling by the 
sparkling waters, I caught them up in my hands and drank 
earnestly to my return to the 

« fflitg of thtf gout " 



ON THE WATER. 



FROM THE GERMAN" OF GEIBEL. 



The valley and the hill are sweet with May, 
The soft spring air is softer still to-day ; 
The woodland echoes float in evening red, 
The earth is joyful, but my heart is dead. 

The silver moon hangs in the crimson west, 
Gay songs are singing from each happy breast; 
In the full wine- cup glows the wine deep red — 
Can I be joyful when my heart is dead? 

The little boat goes swiftly on her way, 
The first stars glimmer in the twilight gray ; 
Soft music sounds, and softer words are said ; — 
I would be joyful, but my heart is dead. 

Yet if my lost love from the grave could rise, 
To thrill me with those un forgotten eyes, 
And offer me once more the joys long fled! — 
In vain ! for lost is lost, and dead is dead. 



BRUTUS AND CAESAR. 59 



BRUTUS AND (LESAK. 



BY JOHN J. CASS. 



In ancient times, two thousand years ago 

(Perhaps not quite, but very nearly so), 

Before old Ohronos, with his sweeping blade, 

Had swept our annum one into. the shade, 

When gods were plenty, and when clothes were scarce ; 

As well as other things I might rehearse, 

There lived, so I have heard, in famous Rome, 

Two poor young men, possessed of "nary" home. 

They merely lodged up in a garret rude, 

Where none but rats and landlord dare intrude; 

No wife's nor sister's whims had they to please, 

They lived together, happy and at ease ; 

And if out late at night they chanced to stay, 

No mother groaned because they were away, 

Nor kept them waiting, freezing at the door, 

Because they had not come in an hour before. 

Brutus and Csesar were the names they bore, 

Perhaps you've heard their history before, 

But should it differ from the tale I tell, 

Account it false, for on the spot and well 

This one was taken, faithful to a hair, 

By Russell, our reporter, who was there. 

Complacently a pleasant life they led, 

For angry thought had ne'er disturbed their head, 

Until one sad, unhappy day, it seems, 

" A change came o'er the spirit of their dreams." 

Now you must know our heroes had a plan, 

A method to supply the inner man ; 

And this it was : each morn they tried by chance 

Who should the cash for that day's food advance. 

The lot this woeful day on Caesar fell, 

And Csesar spoke, " No one shall ever tell, 



60 frobisher's sebial readings. 

When to the shades I'm- gone (that's when I'm 

dead), 
That I or friend of mine e'er wanted bread." 
Then off he went, and little time had sped, 
When back he came with three huge loaves of bread ; 
Nor was this all, for going out once more, 
He back a well-cooked leg of mutton bore. 
" And now," he said, "I'll go and get some wine, 
And bring my friend, Mark Antony, to dine." 
Now Brutus, having never learned a trade, 
Had politics his means of living made, 
And found it was, as many since have seen, 
A means of living, but of living mean. 
He wore that' famished look of want and care 
Which office- seeking men are won't to wear. 
Being now alone, his hungry-looking eyes 
Gloat on the food that spread before him lies, 
And though he was " an honorable man/' 
Still thus it was his meditations ran : 
" If Julius Caesar brings his friend up here, 
They'll leave but little grub for me, 1 fear ; 
So I'll pitch in, nor will I wait a minute, 
For if I wait the very deuce is in it ; 
Between this Caesar and his hungry guest 
I can't get half enough, and do my best." 
And so he ate, nor ceased to wag his jaw 
Until two loaves were settled in his maw, 
Besides the roasted leg, of which, said he, 
" A leg it was, but now no leg-i-see." 
About this time some steps approached the stair, 
And Brutus, grown uneasy in his chair, 
And now repentant grown, bemoans his lot, 
With " Here's old Nick to pay, and no pitch hot." 
Closer and closer now up stairs they come, 
They pass the threshold, and with wonder dumb, 
They stand dejectedly in mute surprise, 
With chagrin pictured in their gaping eyes. 



EEGULTJS. 61 

Then Caesar spoke in deep and husky voice : 

"Friend of my bosom, comrade of my choice, 

What means this queer confusion I see here? 

What have you done with all my goodly cheer ? " 

Quoth Brutus then, " I scorn to tell a lie, 

I ate your grub, my friend, alas, 'twas I. 

Being sadly by the pangs of hunger pressed, 

I ate two loaves of bread, and there's the rest." 

" Et tu ! Brute ! insatiable glutton ! 

How dare you do so, sir ? And where's my mutton ? 

My mutton cut ! My curses on you fall. 

This is the most unkindest cut of all." 

Deep wounded by this base ingratitude, 

And still more deeply by the loss of food, 

Even at his washstand base, " great Caesar fell," 

While Brutus muttered, "Let him go — 'tis well, 

I do not care." Said 'Tony then, 

" Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen. 

I mean not Caesar's fall upon the floor, 

Although that hurt his feelings much, or more ; 

But the fall, has worse befell a saint or sinner, 

The fall of all my hopes of getting dinner." 



EEGULTJS. 



KELLOGG. 



The whole people of Carthage, startled, astounded, by the 
report that Eegulus had returned, were pouring a mighty 
tide into the great square before the Senate House. There 
were mothers in that throng, whose captive sons were groan- 
ing in Eoman fetters ; maidens, whose lovers were dying in 
the distant dungeons of Eome ; gray-haired men and ma- 
trons, whom Eoman steel had made childless ; men, who were 
seeing their country's life crushed out by Eoman power; 



62 frobisher's serial readings. 

and with wild voices, cursing and groaning, the vast throng 
gave vent to the rage, the hate, the anguish of long years. 

Calm, cold, and immovable as the marble walls around 
him, stood Eegulus, and he stretched out his hand over that 
frenzied crowd, with gesture as proudly commanding as 
though he still stood at the head of the gleaming cohorts of 
Rome. 

" Ye doubtless thought — for ye judge of Roman virtue by 
your own — that I would break my plighted oath, rather than, 
returning, brook your vengeance. I might give reasons for 
this, in Punic comprehension, most foolish act of mine. I 
might speak of those eternal principles which make death 
for one's country a pleasure, not a pain. But, by great Jupi- 
ter ! methinks I should debase myself to talk of such high 
things to you. 

"If the bright blood that fills my veins, transmitted free 
from godlike ancestry, were like that slimy ooze which stag- 
nates in your arteries, I had remained at home, and broke my 
plighted oath to save my life. I am a Roman citizen ; there- 
fore have I returned, that ye might work your will upon this 
mass of flesh and bones, that I esteem no higher than the 
rags that cover them. 

"Here, in your capitol, do I defy you. Have I not con- 
quered your armies, fired your towns, and dragged your gen- 
erals at my chariot wheels, since first my youthful arms could 
wield a spear? And do you think to see me crouch and 
cower before a tamed and shattered senate ? Compared with 
that fierce mental agony which I have passed through at 
Rome, the tearing of flesh and rending of sinews is but pas- 
time to me. Venerable senators, with trembling voices and 
outstretched hands, besought me to return no more to Car- 
thage. The generous people, with loud wailing, and wildly- 
tossing gestures, bade me stay. The voice of a beloved 
mother, her withered hands beating her breast, her gray 
hairs streaming in the wind, tears flowing down her fur- 
rowed cheeks, praying me not to leave her in her lonely and 
helpless old age, is still sounding in my ears. Compared to 



MOONLIGHT FANCIES. 63 

anguish like this, what are your paltry torments ? Go, 
bring your sharpest tortures ! The woes I see impending over 
this guilty realm shall be enough to sweeten death, though 
every nerve were strung with agony. I die, but mine shall 
be the triumph; yours, the untold desolation. For every 
drop of blood ye from my veins do draw, your own shall 
flow in rivers. Woe to thee, Carthage ! woe to the proud city 
of the waters ! I see thy nobles wailing at the feet of Eoman 
senators! thy citizens in terror ! thy ships in flames ! I hear 
the victorious shouts of Some ! I see her eagles glittering on 
thy ramparts. Proud city, thou art doomed ! The curse of 
God is on thee, a clinging, wasting curse. It shall not 
leave thy gates till hungry flames shall lick the fretted gold 
from off thy proud palaces, and every brook runs crimson to 
the sea. Eome, with bloody hand, shall sweep thy heart- 
strings, and all thy homes shall howl in wild response of 
anguish to her touch. Proud mistress of the sea, disrobed, 
uncrowned and scourged, thus again do I devote thee to the 
infernal gods ! Now, bring forth your tortures ! Slaves ! while 
ye tear this quivering flesh, remember how often Eegulus 
has beaten your armies and humbled your pride. Out as he 
would have carved you ! Burn deep as his curse ! " 



MOONLIGHT FANCIES. 



SARA GENEVRA CHAFA. 



The moonlight falls in a misty flood 

Adown on my chamber roof, 
And a thousand thoughts in my busy brain 

Soon are woven into woof. 
I think I stand on Italia's shore, 

And muse as the moonbeams fall 
On the glassy sea, and the ivied fanes, 

And many a ruined wall. 



64 eeobisheb's seeial eeadikgs. 

It kissed the brow of a fair young bride, 

And sleeps in her sweet dark eyes, 
And haloes the spot where the two kneel down, 

Like a gleam from Paradise. 
Then I think I see it pouring free 

Down the classic mountain's side, 
And it falls in a golden flood on fields 

Where the heroes of earth have died. 

Again I stand amid its light 

As it falls on the busy street 
Of the city of wit and fickleness, 

Where fashion holds reign complete. 
In sunny France, where the vineyards are, 

And the people of dance and song, 
And it pours o'er the Bastile a solemn sheen, 

As in fancy I move along. 

It gleams on an old chateau, 

Through its windows, ivy-grown, 
Weirdly bright is the moonbeam's light, 

As a dream that is overthrown. 
O ! it rests on a marble brow, 

On a cheek that is icy cold ; 
On a prostrate form of a maiden fair 

Who has sold her life for gold. 

Then over the Alps, and far away, 

Where it shines on their peaks of snow, 
Gazing and dreaming and musing still, 

On Fancy's wild wing I go. 
It looks in a Switzer's home, 

And rests on the bright young cheek 
Of a youth with waving locks flung back, 

And a red lip fixed to speak. 
And his tones are clear and sweet 

As his own free mountain air, 
And his proud young face is full of grace, 

Of everything bright and fair. 



MOONLIGHT FANCIES. 65 

Away I go where the moonlight sleeps 

On Hungary's sacred soil, 
And I see it kiss, with its silver lips, 

A man's brown face of toil. 
It rests on the Austrian sabre's blade 

In a soldier's stalwart hand, 
And it gleams on Vienna's towering spires 

As they shadow the verdant land ; 
And down by a battlement 

It creeps 'mong the cannon balls, 
Then speeds away to a pleasant home, 

Where, soft as a prayer, it falls. 

Far off in a Turkish harem 

It peeps from the blue, bright skies, 
And mirrors its own sweet splendor 

In numberless sparkling eyes. 
But I see it fall more softly 

On a bowed young jetty head, 
With wondrous brow and pensive eyes, 

And lips where the rose has fled ; 
And the maiden murmurs, in accents low, 

In another tongue, a tale of woe. 

Again I track its footsteps 

To a far Egyptian plain, 
Where it falls in liquid glory 

Like a shower of silver rain. 
And it haloes the grand old Pyramids, 

In their mighty, solemn state, 
And it calls up within my spirit 

The dead, and the ancient great. 

And yonder, in far Arabia, 

It silvers the wondrous palm, 
And rests on Sahara's sand-waves 

With a heavy, baptismal calm, 



6$ fkobishek's sekial keadikgs. 

Then back o'er the foaming ocean, 

As the billows dance in light, 
I see it bathe the steamer, 

In her onward, steady flight ; 
And it looks in the cabin window, 

And wakes up the sailor boy, 
Who has wandered away, and, homesick, 

Was dreaming of future joy. 

Down the Eocky Mountain passes 

It shines with a cheering ray, 
And, tangled amid the forest, 

It waits for the coming day ; 
And so through the solemn minutes, 

While I rest from my spirit's flight, 
Over the earth the moonlight 

Is clasped in the arms of night. 



THE DUTCHMAN'S SHMALL POX. 

Some years ago, a droll sort of a Dutchman was the driver 
of a stage in ISTew Jersey, and he passed daily through the 
small hamlet of Jericho. One morning, just as the vehicle 
was starting from Squash Point, a person came up and re- 
quested the driver to take in a small box, and ''leave it at Mrs. 
Scudder's, third house on the left after you get into Jericho." 

"Yaas, oh yaas, Mr. Ellis, I knows der haus," said the 
driver. " I pleeve der voman dakes in vashin', vor I always 
sees her mit her clothes hung out." 

"You're right, that's the place," said Ellis (for that was 
the man's name), "she washes for one of the steamboats." 

The box was thereupon duly deposited in the front boot, 
the driver took his 'levenpenny bit for carrying it, and the 
stage started on its winding way. In an hour or two, the 



THE DUTCHMAN'S SHMALL POX. 67 

four or five houses comprising the village of Jericho hove in 
sight. In front of one of them, near the door, a tall, mus- 
cular woman was engaged at a wash-tub, while lines of 
white linen, fluttering in the wind, ornamented the adjoin- 
ing lawn. The stage stopped at the gate, when the follow- 
ing ludicrous dialogue, and attendant circumstances, took 
place : 

Driver — Is dis Miss Scutter's haus ? 

Woman [looking up, without stopping her work] — Yes, 
I'm Mrs. Scudder. 

Driver — I'fe got der shmall pox in der stage ; vill you come 
out and dake it ? 

Woman [suddenly throwing down the garment she was 
washing] — Got the small pox ! mercy on me ! why do you 
stop here, you wicked man ? you'd better be off, quick as 
you can. [Runs into the house.] 

Driver [mutters to himself] — I vonder vat's der matter 
mit der fool ? I'fe a goot mind ter drow it over der fence. 

Upon second thought, he takes the box, gets off the stage, 
and carries it into the house. But in an instant he reap- 
pears, followed by a broom, with an enraged woman at the 
end of it, who is shouting in a loud voice — 

"You git out of this ! clear yourself quicker! — you've no 
business to come here exposing decent people to the small 
pox ; what do you mean by it ? " 

"I dells you it's der shmall pox!" exclaimed the Dutch- 
man, emphasizing the Avord box as plainly as he could. " Ton't 
you versteh? — der small pox dat Mishter Ellis sends to you." 

But Mrs. Scudder was too much excited to comprehend 
this explanation, even if she had listened to it. Having it 
fixed in her mind that there w r as a case of small pox on the 
stage, and that the driver was asking her to take into the 
house a passenger thus afflicted, her indignation knew no 
bounds. 

"Clear out! " exclaimed she, excitedly; " I'll call the men 
folks if you don't clear!" and then shouting at the top of 
her voice: "Ike! you Ike! where are you ? " 



68 frobisher's serial readings. 

Ike soon made his appearance, and inquired — 

" W-what's the matter, mother ? " 

The driver answered! — 

" I dells yon now onct more, for der last time, I'fe got der 
shmall pox, and Mishter Ellis he dells me to gif it to Miss 
Scutter, and if dat vrow ish Miss Scutter, vy she no dake der 
pox?" 

By this time several of the passengers had got off the 
stage to see the fnn, and one of them explained to Mrs. 
Scudder that it was a box, and not small pox, that the driver 
wished to leave with her. 

The woman had become so thoroughly frightened that she 
was still incredulous, until a bright idea struck Ike. 

" Oh, mother ! " exclaimed he, "I know what 'tis — it's 
Madame Ellis's box of laces, sent to be done up." 

With this explanation the affair was soon settled, and Mrs. 
Scudder received the Dutchman's "shmall pox" amidst the 
laughter and shouts of the occupants of the old stage coach. 
The driver joined in, although he had not the least idea of 
what they were laughing at, and as the vehicle rolled away, 
he added not a little to the mirth by saying, in a triumphant 
tone of voice, " I vas pound ter gif ter old vomans der 
shmall pox, vether she vould dake it or not." 



THE DARLING WEE SHOE. 



BY DORA SHAW. 



'Twas a morning in June, and the roses, each one, 
Turned up its soft cheek for a k'iss from the sun; 
And the violet, wooed by the breeze that stole by, 
Purpled over with shame, while a tear in its eye 



THE DARLIKG WEE SHOE. 69 

Seemed its only reproof, and it bowed to the sod 
As a worshiper bows at the name of his God, — 
When a maiden, with fingers bejeweled with dew, 
Stooped to fasten the strings of her darling wee shoe. 

Oh, the maiden was lithe, and the maiden was fair; 

The laburnum was dim to the gold of her hair; 

And the pale-faced lily, if it could but speak, 

Would say how it envied the rose of her cheek; 

And the lark, 'mid his song, would fold up his brown wing, 

To list her glad voice with its mellow-toned ring ; 

And the fragile mimosa no tremor e'er knew 

At the fall of that foot in its darling wee shoe. 

Oh, that foot was so slender, that foot was so small! 
Soft as voices of air was the sound of its fall ; 
And, as it drew nearer, a strange nameless fear 
Then thrilled through my heart, 'till its throbs I could hear ; 
And blushes, like lightning, flashed up to my cheek, 
When this maiden so fair ope'd her red lips to speak, 
And begged me to bind, what the breeze would undo, 
The ribbons which fastened that darling wee shoe. 

Of that task were enamored my fingers, I ween, 

For they lingered full long o'er those fetters of sheen 

Which fluttered like birds but just caught in a snare, 

While more silent and calm grew the maiden so fair ; 

She smiled me her thanks, and turned from the spot 

With a look in her blue eyes I never forgot, 

For it seemed to say, in a language too true: 

"Thou'st fettered thy heart in the strings of my shoe!" 

Well, I loved and I wedded this maiden so fair; 
But the cold dews of Death fell one night on her hair, 
And dimmed its bright gold ; and they fell on her cheek ; 
Silent grew the dear lips that such fond words could 
speak. 



70 erobisher's serial readings. 

" My feet are aweary," it seemed as she'd say, 
"That have trod with thee, darling, life's flowery way; 
Oh, stoop thee again, and, I prithee, undo, 
My feet are aweary, the strings of my shoe." 

Oh, that foot was so slender, that foot was so cold ! 
Not the rose-tinted thing that had charmed me of old ; 
I bathed it with tears, but I could not restore 
Its motion so bounding; nay, its fleetness was o'er; 
Nevermore would it meet me at morning, at night, 
Or wander 'mong flowers that loved it like light, 
For together stooped Death and myself to undo 
The ribbons that fastened that darling wee shoe. 

Calm she sleeps in the church-yard, this maiden so fair, 
And her favorite flowers are blossoming there ; 
There the sweet lady-slipper springs up in its pride, 
Fitting type of the wee one which lies by my side! 
Did I say in the church-yard she sleeps ? No, ah, no ! 
For star-crowned in Heaven she dwelleth, I know ; 
And light, silvery sandals, which Death cannot undo, 
She weareth in place of that darling wee shoe. 



SUMNER'S CHARACTER. 



CARL SCHUR. 



Mr. Sumner's natural abilities were not of the first order; 
but they were supplemented by acquired abilities of remark- 
able power. His mind did not invent and create by inspira- 
tion ; it produced by study and work. Neither had his 
mind superior constructive capacity. When he desired to 
originate a measure of legislation, he scarcely ever elaborated 
its practical detail; he usually threw his idea into the form 
of a resolution, or a bill giving in the main his purpose 



summer's character. 71 

only, and then he advanced to the discussion of the prin- 
ciples involved. It was difficult for him to look at a question 
or a problem from more than one point of view, and to com- 
prehend its different bearings, its complex relations with 
other questions or problems ; and to that one point of view 
he was apt to subject ail other considerations. He not only 
thought, but he did not hesitate to say -that all construction 
of the Constitution must be subservient to the supreme 
duty of giving the amplest protection to the natural rights 
of man by direct national legislation. He was not free from 
that dangerous tendency to forget the limits which bound 
the legitimate range of legislative and governmental action. 
No living man who knew Mr. Sumner well, will hesitate 
a moment to pronounce the charge of duplicity as founded 
on the most radical of misapprehensions. An act of du- 
plicity on his part was simply a moral impossibility. It w T as 
absolutely foreign to his nature. Whatever may have been 
the defects of his character, he never knowingly deceived a 
human being. There.was in him not the faintest shadow of 
dissimulation, disguise, or trickery. Not one of his words 
ever had the purpose of a double meaning, not one of his 
acts a hidden aim. His likes and dislikes, his approval 
and disapproval, as soon as they were clear to his own con- 
sciousness, appeared before the world in the open light of 
noonday. His frankness was so unbounded, his candor so 
entire, his ingenuousness so childlike, that he lacked even 
the discretion of ordinary prudence. He was almost inca- 
pable of moderating his feelings, of toning down his mean- 
ing in the expression When he might have gained a point 
by indirection, he would not have done so, because he could 
not. He was one of those who, when they attack, attack 
always in front and in broad daylight. The night surprise 
and the flank march were absolutely foreign to his tactics, 
because they were incompatible with his nature. I have 
known many men in my life, but never one who was less 
capable of a perfidious act or an artful profession. Call 
him a vain, an impracticable, an imperious man, if you will, 



72 froblshee's seeial readings. 

but American history does not mention the name of one of 
whom with greater justice it can be said that he was a true 
man. 



HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S. 



BY MARY A. P. STANSBURY. 



'Twas long ago — ere ever the signal gun 

That blazed above Fort Sumter had wakened the north as 

one ; 
Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire 
Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to 

their heart's desire. 

On roofs and glittering turrets, that night as the sun went 

down, 
The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled crown, 
And bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their 

eyes, 
They saw .,the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's, 

rise 

High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball, 
That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall; 
Eirst glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor, 

round, 
And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. 

The gently-gathering shadows shut out the waning light ; 
The children prayed at their bedsides, as they were wont each 

night; 
The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, 
And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on. 



HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S. 73 

But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, 
For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling 

feet; 
Men stared in each other's faces, thro' mingled fire and 

smoke, 
While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous, stroke on 

stroke. 

By the glare of her blazing roof- tree the houseless mother 
fled, 

With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in name- 
less dread, 

While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and capstone 
high, 

And planted their glaring banners against an inky sky. 

From the death that raged behind them, and the crush of 

ruin loud, 
To the great square of the city, were driven the surging 

crowd, 
Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery 

flood, 
With its heavenward pointing finger the church of St. 

Michael's stood. 

But e'en as they gazed upon it, there rose a sudden wail, 
A cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, 
On whose scorching wings updriven, a single flaming brand, 
Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand. 

"Will it fade?" the whisper trembled from a thousand 

whitening lips ; 
Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships, 
A baleful gleam, that brighter and ever brighter shone, 
Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady bea- 
con grown. 

4 



74 frobisher's serial readings. 

" Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave 

right hand, 
Foi the love of the perilled city, plucks down yon burning 

brand ! " 
So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, 
But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a 

word. 

Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky ? 
Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye ? 
Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible sickening 

height ? 
Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the 

sight ? 

But, see! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his 
feet and his hands, 

And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath 
him he stands! 

Now, once, and once only, they cheer him — a single tempestu- 
ous breath, 

And there falls on the multitude gazing, a hush like the still- 
ness of death. 

Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of 

the fire, 
Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of 

the spire ; 
He stops! Will he fall? Lo ! for answer, a gleam like a 

meteor's track, 
And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand 

lies shattered and black ! 

Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering 

air; 
At the church door, mayor and council wait with their feet 

on the stair, 



OUR DEAD. 75 

And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his 

hand, 
The unknown saviour whose daring could compass a deed 
■ so grand. 

But why does a sudden tremor seize on them as they gaze ? 
And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and 

amaze ? 
He stood in the gate of the temple he had perilled his life to 

save, 
And the nice of the unknown hero was the sable face of a 

slave ! 

With folded arms he was speaking in tones that were clear, 

not loud, 
And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of 

the crowd. 
" Ye may keep your gold, I scorn it ! but answer me, ye who 

can, 
If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a 

man f " 

He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the 

women and men 
There were only sobs for answer, and the mayor called for a 

pen, 
And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran, 
And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its door 

a man. 



OUB DEAD. 



GEN". JAMES B. M'KEAN. 



To comrades living, for comrades dead I speak to-day. On 
the earth, in the earth, and perchance in the air, they sur- 
round us. When before was ever a speaker "compassed 



76 frobisher's serial readings. 

about with so great a cloud of witnesses ? " — and such wit- 
nesses ! Steadier nerves and stouter hearts than mine might 
well recoil abashed in such a presence. 

Who are they to whom I speak to-day ? Among those 
who look and listen are some who have gone unharmed 
through the carnage of a score of battles. Let not the fact 
of their good fortune diminish their country's gratitude. 
Here are men with empty sleeves; let a hundred hands be 
stretched out to help them. Here are men poised upon 
crutches ; let millionaires stand up that they may sit down. 
Here are men with maimed and scarred visages; let the 
world uncover in their presence, for their scars are badges 
of our Legion of Honor. Here are men with pale faces, 
who threw their all upon the altar of their country, and took 
nothing off but broken constitutions ; let their country 
make them, not the objects of a pitiful charity, but the sub- 
jects of simple justice, not to say bountiful generosity. I 
am surrounded by men who rallied with the flag -when it had 
fallen back in defeat, and who went with it when it mounted 
above the clouds in victory. Perhaps among our colored 
comrades here may be, if he recovered from his wounds, that 
standard-bearer of desperate courage, who, when his right 
arm was shattered, with his left held up the flag, and when 
one leg was shattered, poised on the other he held up the 
flag, and when both legs were shattered he fell upon his 
knees and held up the flag, and hobbling upon his knees he 
crept up to his captain and said, " Massa, de ole flag nebber 
touch de ground! " And here are men who "bore a hand" 
when the Monitor stove in the ribs of the Merrimac ; when 
Farragut went to battle mounted aloft in the rigging ; and 
when the half-breed Anglo-rebel pirate, Alabama, was sent 
down head foremost in sight of British waters; men 
who helped to bring our good old ship of State through the 
storm and into the harbor, where already she is refitted, and 
is even now weighing her anchors to go out upon another, 
even more glorious, but peaceful voyage on the high seas 
of the future. 



DECORATION DAT. 77 

DECORATION DAY. 



GEN. COCHRANE. 



Muffled drum and vailed standard marshaled us the 
way to the field of our dead, and we have come back with 
hearts surcharged with solemn memories. A myriad graves 
of soldiers slain lay silent in the morning sun — lay green in 
the turf upon them ; a myriad voice broke their silence 
with a blessing, and myriad hands strewed all their turf 
with flowers — flowers grown in Nature's virgin purity, and 
strewn with affection's unstinted measure. They lie there 
now, and long may they lie — sweet emblems of all that is 
beautiful and true — exhaling the incense of our love for 
them that are in the skies. 

Of all causes, comrades, the cause of country is that which 
crowns achievement with glory, and its soldier with im- 
mortality. So has been written the judgment of the vanished 
ages. The dead for country come to us embalmed by the 
historic, and robed effulgently by the poetic muse. Art 
breathes into her votary an inspiration ; and the pencil and 
the chisel vie in transmitting through the generations an 
enduring monument of the patriot past. Nature's self is 
not voiceless. With all her tongues she attunes the deeds 
of heroes sepulchered in her bosom. Marathon is still plead- 
ing to the listening stars the story of her -Grecian slain; 
and ever the iEgean wave is beating on the wide world's 
ear the cadenced stroke of the Salaminian galleys. Man 
dies, but virtue and liberty never cease, once having been, to 
be; and from the tomb their mighty radiance streams along 
the gloom of ages evermore, without decrease. 

Comrades ! To their country a thousand days were given 
by the boys who died to save it. Shall not that country now 
give one day to them ? The inexorable mart, the crazed 
and crazing 'Change, and trade's unfeeling train, say — No ! 
Justice, and wisdom, and the large heart of a great people 



78 frobisher's serial readings. 

say— Yes. From that side comes the wail of bills payable 
distracted, and bills receivable distressed. Here are heard 
the plaintive and persuasive accents of a nation in behalf of 
its defenders. Know yon not, O law-makers! know you 
not that one day seized from the fretful fever of gain is a 
halt called in the exhausting march to personal wealth ? — 
a rest in the soul-subduing struggle for riches? Such a day, 
set in the national calendar, would incontestibly prove a 
day of national blessing. Bonfires, and bells, and cannon 
noisily attest the anniversary of our National Independence. 
Solemn ceremonies and religious rites should recall the 
memory of our national preservation. It may be truthfully 
said, comrades, that two annual holidays are the peculiar 
birthright of every American — the one to celebrate, with 
an irrepressible and explosive joy, the national birth; the 
other, with sedate and sincere thanksgivings, to celebrate 
the national resurrection. May Congress heed well the 
lesson. 



CHARLIE MACHEEE. 



BY W. J. HOPPIK. 



Come over, come over the river to me, 

If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree. 

Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn, 

Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare na plunge in. 

But the dark rolling river, though deep as the sea, 
I know will na scare you, nor keep you frae me; 

For stout is yer back, and strong is yer arm, 
And the heart in yer bosom is faithful and warm. 



CHARLIE MACHREE. 79 

Come over, come over the river to me, 
If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree. 

I see, I see him, he's plunged in the tide, 

His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside. 

the dark rolling water shoots swift as the sea, 
But blithe is the glance of his bonny bine e'e: 

His cheeks are like roses, twa buds on a bough ; 
Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie now ? 

Ho, ho, foaming river, ye may roar as ye go, 

But ye canna bear Charlie to the dark loch below! 

Come over, come over, the river to me, 

My true-hearted laddie, my v Charlie Machree. 

He's sinking, he's sinking — what shall I do ? 
Strike put, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes and ye're thro' ! 

He's sinking, Heaven ! Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear ; 
I've a kiss for ye, Charlie, as soon as ye're here ! 

He rises, I see him — five strokes, Charlie, mair — 
He's shaking the wet from his bonnie brown hair ; 

He conquers the current, he gains on the sea, 
Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree ! 

Come over the river, but once come to me, 

And I'll love you forever, dear Charlie Machree. * 

He's sinking! he's gone ! God, it is I, 

It is I who have killed him — help ! help ! he must die. 

Help ! help ! ah, he rises, strike out and ye're free, 
Ho, bravely done, Charlie, once more now, for me! 



80 



Now cling to the rock, now gie us your hand, 
Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, ye're safe on the land. 

Come rest on my bosom, if there ye can sleep ; 
I canna speak to ye ; I only can weep. 

Ye've crossed the wild river, ye've risked all for me ; 
And I'll part frae ye never, dear Charlie Machree ! 



THE GIRL WITH THE MILKING PAIL. 

College vacation ! A trip to the sea-shore was the word 
for us, and a jollier set you never saw. A few hours' ride by 
rail, and then the lumbering, rattling old stage-coach, drawn 
by real horses — four of them. It didn't take long to " claim 
our baggage" and take our seats for a lovely two hours' trip 
" in the cool " of the afternoon, through, to us, the most 
enchanting scenery to a village in Massachusetts, right 
on the edge of old ocean. We could smell the brine from 
afar, intermixed with that of pulverized sea-shells of various 
kinds strewn along the road, and see the piles of sea-grass 
piled up in stacks by many a barn and shed ; and we longed 
to meet old friends, to see the sea, whose roar we fancied we 
could almost hear as bowled the wheels under the rocking and 
swaying antediluvian vehicle that looked old enough to have 
been among the first on the highway. " The mail " had been 
twice changed, rosy apples had been plucked from trees along 
the way, and as the sun was gorgeously setting behind a 
young and vigorous growth of oak, we could see the principal 
church-spire of the village towering high above the neat 
white houses and red barns, and we felt our happy trip was 
nearly over. We had laughed and joked, and now our faces 
began to wear a soberer hue, as we drew foster and faster to- 
ward our destination. We could have hardly believed it pos- 
sible to have laughed louder than a smile, but you have not 



THE GIRL WITH THE MILKING PAIL. bl 

yet read the sequel. The horn was " tooted " long and loud 
for the 1 last time, and now we gained the suburbs. We were 
already in the " main " street of the village, perhaps a mile 
in length. Faces peered at almost every pane of glass in 
many windows. Some ran to doors to gaze, children to the 
gates and sidewalks, all with "one idee," to see "who'd 
cum ? " " Smack went the whip, round went the wheels" 
The horses gave an extra snort, pricked up their ears, I 
verily believe smelling "their oats." Milkmaids were re- 
turning from their lacteal labors, some with more, some 
with less, of liquid whiteness, pure and unadulterated. But 
one bare-foot, strapping lassie, brown as a nut, more am- 
bitious than all the rest, had found her way to the road 
itself, not content with remaining on the narrow side-path, 
determined to have a good look or none. The stage was full 
inside and outside, but those on top had, of course, the first 
and the best sight of all that was going on. Her pail was 
an unusually full one, and, being somewhat awkward to 
handle, she carried it upon her head, her waterfall and sun- 
bonnet rolled up supplying the place of a pad usually worn 
by those bearing burdens in this wise. She knew the coach 
was coming, and as it grew nearer she turned and faced full 
around. She walked backwards, as Hamlet describes it, 
" like a crab." We young fellows on top were " all eyes," 
and she, with her pouting lips, did not seem to mind our 
gazing " one bit." But " pride cometh before a fall. " The 
leaders — I mean by that the forward horses — had just 
reached abreast the damsel, and she, fearing she would 
not see enough — oh, fatal curiosity! — took longer steps 
backwards, intently occupied on the one thought, when, 
as the fates would have it, a huge stone, lying athwart 
her path, and unaccustomed to moving out of one's way, 
brought her up all standing, as the saying runs, and the con- 
sequences are part of our story. She sat square down for 
an instant, but an instant only, and vainly attempted to 
rally her lost equilibrium. The big stone was all right, but 
somehow she had not made her calculations correctly. The 



82 

milk-pail was the bother. She clutched it with a firmel 
grasp, but its momentum was too great ; it must go, and 
it did go, and she with it. A faint shriek, a splurge, 
a splash, a del age, and where was the maid with the milk- 
ing- pail ? It was all the work of an instant, but in that 
instant we saw a pail very strangely mixed with arms, legs, 
and milk, a wet rock, a lot of calico, and damaged dry goods 
generally. Remember, this was all seen in an instant; the 
next we saw a form emerging, like Venus rising from a 
milky sea, or Milky Way, whichever you choose, and very 
undignifiedly spluttering and striving to catch her breath. 
The moment she could gasp a syllable^ she bellowed out, 
" Oh, Lucl ! oh, Lud ! wliat have I done, and where am 
If" The stage was brought up with a sudden halt, and 
the gallant outside passengers sprang to her/ assistance, but 
before they could fairly reach her, she had once more got her 
eyes open, and with scarcely more than a single bound she 
reached the walk, clambered over the fence belonging to the 
house from which she hailed; not knowing where she was 
until called by the people of the same, who had also hastened 
to her rescue, and she rushed into the door and out of 
sight, leaving the pail behind her. What need the casket 
after the gem had gone ? 

What afterwards occurred can only be conjectured, but 
many a hearty laugh went up as soon as all were satisfied 
she was not hurt, and the village folks by no means short- 
ened the story in its telling. 



THE WIDOW. 



TRANSLATION FROM GILBERT {German). MRS. E. F. ELLET. 



Dorinda mourned a husband kind and true ; 
She loved him as herself, and better too ; 
" Better ? " methinks I hear some sceptic say, 
With smiling scorn. But let him scoff away ! 



THE WIDOW. 83 

Death snatched from poor Dorinda, I'll say, then, 

The best of husbands and the best of men. 

The hapless widow wrung her hands and cried, 

And sank down swooning by the dead man's side. 

Friends came, and strove to soothe her woes, in vain; 

In piteous mpans she poured her ceaseless pain. 

"Whole days continued this afflicted mood. 

Meanwhile, a neighbor skilled in carving wood, 

Some comfort to the sorrowing one to send, 

Resolved to carve an image of his friend. 

'Twas done ! The blessed Stephen, large as life, 

Stood then to comfort his distracted wife. 

With triumph then they brought the wooden spouse 

To the second story of the widow's house ; 

There, in her chamber, having turned the key, 

Quite inconsolable by sympathy, 

She shut herself from all, and sought relief 

With that dear statue from her bitter grief, 

Vowing to weep away the rest of life, 

What more could one desire of a wife ? 

Here stayed Dorinda, lonely and heartbroken, 

For weeks ; and had not to a creature spoken. 

One day, she from her window chanced to throw 

A careless look. A stranger stood below ! 

Up in a twinkling came the trembling maid, 

" Madam, a gentleman has called,'' she said ; 

" A lovely man as one could wish to see ! 

He has some business he'll not trust with me ! " 

" Make some excuse for me," the widow sighed. 

" I'll not leave this dear image I " "I have tried 

To put him off ; v the maid said, " but 'twon't do ! " 

"Tell him I'm sick with sorrow." "Madam, no ; 

He has already had a glimpse of you, 

Here, at your window, as he stood below ; 

You must come down ; the stranger will not go 

He's something weighty to impart, I know." 



84 fkobisher's seeial readings. 

A moment the young widow stands perplexed, 

Embraced the image, and went down the next. 

Hour after hour slips on. What can this mean ? 

So strange a thing has Susan never seen ! 

At last, Dorinda comes out, and alone, 

And shuts the door. " Say, what shall now be done ? 

The gentleman ivill be my guest to-night. 

Broil fish for supper, set the lire alight." 

Back to the parlor goes the widow quick, 

Susan looks high and low to find a stick 

To set the fire agoing ; all in vain, 

She calls her mistress, in despair, again, 

" Madam, I cannot find a stick of wood, 

Except that image ! That is hard and good. 

I'd split it in a thrice, ma'am, but for you ! " 

" The image ? No, indeed! — But — well— yes — do ! " 

" Oh, thank you, ma'am ! but 'tis too much for me ! 

I cannot lift it all alone, you see. 

'Twould go out of the window easily ! " 

" A lucky thought ! And that would split it, too ! 

What need you now of any more ado ! 

Come, then ! I'll bear no more this misery ! 

The gentleman in future lives with me!" 

Up went the sash, and out the 

" Blessed Stephen " flew ! 



THE IRISHMAN'S SPUR. 

Many years ago, before railroads or turnpikes were in- 
vented, and when travelers were few in number, journies 
were usually made on horseback; and at country taverns it 
was customary to make a double bed answer for two guests. 
At that period, one hot summer evening, a Scotchman and 
an Irishman had stopped at a public house in New Jersey, 
on the main road from New York to Philadelphia, to spend 



THE IRISHMAN'S SPUE. 85 

the night. A jolly Dutchman who provided " entertain- 
ment for man and beast/' kept this hostelry. The two 
guests were strangers to each other, having arrived from 
different directions, but being somewhat lonesome, and 
supping together at the common table, they scraped an 
acquaintance, and at bed- time the landlord showed both to 
the same room, where they were to occupy one bed. The 
night was hot, the ceiling of the bedroom somewhat low, 
and our travelers, after laying off their garments and hoist- 
ing the windows, were about to retire, when the Scotchman 
suggested, on blowing out the light, that it would be more 
comfortable to throw open the bedroom door and get " a wee 
bit of air through the hoose," as he expressed it. Patrick 
consenting, the door was set open, and the two betook them- 
selves to slumber. 

A couple of hours later, two other travelers arrived in 
company, and demanded a bed, which was duly promised 
them. Being young and jolly fellow r s, they first imbibed 
pretty freely at the bar, and were then lighted up stairs. 
Now it so happened that in going through the upper hall, 
the open bedroom door, and the sounds issuing therefrom, 
attracted the attention of the new comers. Both the 
foreigners were apparently fast asleep, and the Scotchman 
was snoring loud enough to accompany the music of a 
barrel organ. Patrick lay on the front side of the bed with 
a naked leg and foot hanging out. 

" Pll have some sport, now," said one of the bloods to his 
mate, " if you'll hold the candle a minute.'' 

The candle was held, while our young joker, creeping 
noiselessly and cat-like into the room, took up one of the 
Irishman's spurs (travelers upon horseback always wore 
spurs in those clays), and buckled it on the heel of Paddy's 
naked foot. He then gave the naked leg a pinch, and 
squatted down out of sight at the foot of the bed. 

The Irishman (though not awakened) drew his leg back 
suddenly into bed, much to the discomfiture and indignation 
of his bedfellow, whose shins were badly raked. 



86 erobisher's serial readings. 

" The de'el dang you ! " exclaims Donald, rubbing his leg 
" an' ef ye dinna gang oot o' bed and cocht yer too nails, I'll 
soon be gettin' up and thraw ye oot th' winder, ye loot ! " — 
and giving the offending leg a push, it was again extended 
as before without waking Pat, who proved to be a sound 
sleeper. 

After waiting a few moments until the Scotchman got 
quiet, our joker drew a straw from the bed-tick, and with it 
tickled the bottom of Patrick's extended foot : and now the 
leg was drawn into bed with a spasmodic jerk, giving the 
unhappy Scotchman a spurring that brought him up on 
end in bed. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, and his 
bruised leg with the other, he began to upbraid his bed- 
fellow in a broad Scotch accent somewhat as follows : 

" Are ye daft, mon, to be scratching me legs in thoft unco' 
way ? Why din ye cocht yer too-nails befoor ga'ing to bed 
with a decent body ? Get oot o' bed and grub off yer too- 
nails, ye loot ! do ye fash a Christian mon to stan' such 
rough diggin' ! " 

This waked up the Irishman, who, involuntarily raking 
his own other leg, vaulted out of bed in double-quick. 

" Och, millia murther ! what's the matther now, and what's 
got hould me fut ? " exclaimed he, putting down his hand 
and feeling the spur with the "greatest astonishment. "By 
me sowl, what a stupid fellow is the hostler of this inn ; 
sure an' he tuk off me boots whin I wint to bed, and the 
fule has left on one ov me spurs ! Strange it is that I did'nt 
notice it." 

This explanation being satisfactory to Donald, harmony 
was soon restored, while the author of the mischief, stuffing 
his handerchief into his mouth to keep from bursting with 
laughter, sneaked out of the room to his own nest. 



ALL BUT LOST. 87 

ALL BUT LOST. 



BY CHARLES FOLLEl* LEE. 



The Northern bugles blithely play 
Through the Shenandoah at break of day, 
And a troop of horsemen clad in blue 
Eide over the meadows wet with dew. 
Their chargers are fresh, and their spirits high, 
And they champ the bit as they thunder by, 
And their nostrils wide in the balm of morn 
Make answer shrill to the bugle horn. 

ii. 

Oh, a gallant band of troopers are they 

Who ride so swift from the camp to-day, 

Sturdy and tall, in heart as strong 

As the heroes brave in the minstrels' song, 

And every mind from guile as free 

As the zephyr that blows from the distant sea. 

in. 
Proud were the men of their noble band, 

And proud of the cause for which they bled, 
A.nd ready to wield the battle brand 

And cleave rebellion's Gorgon head ; 
But prouder yet their leader was 
Of his troopers brave and their noble cause ; 
And as onward he spurred his flying steed, 
His horsemen felt sure some gallant deed 
Would come about ere the burning sun 
Had half of his daily journey run. 

IV. 

In a little town this very day, 
From these Union riders far away, 



88 erobisher's serial readings. 

Was the noise of arms and the tramp of feet, 

And the loud command in every street. 

Columns of gray-clad soldiery, 

Of veteran horse and infantry, 

Marched hither and thither, while fife and drum 

Rose far above the busy hum. 

v. 

And see, they halt just out of the town, 
The infantry form in a hollow square, 
While the horsemen gallop up and down 

And restrain the crowd with their sabres bare. 
But why this throng, and this warlike show ? 
Why gallop these orderlies to and fro ? 
Why muffled those drums that heavily roll 
Such a dead'ning weight on the list'ner's soul ? 
0, Heaven ! what is it that rises there 
In the middle of yonder hollow square ? 
A scaffold it is, whose form uncouth 
Tells plainer than words the awful truth, 
Some one must die on this lovely day, 
Though heaven is fair and Nature gay ; 
But man ne'er thinks when working ill 
If the day be fair, or dark and chill ; 
And he never hears to the silent prayer 
That Nature is making everywhere, 
Her mute appeals to the throne above, 
For the sons of men to live in love. 



VI. 

Some one must die, who is drawing near 
'Tis a stalwart man of a noble mien, 

His face is calm and his eye as clear 
As the liquid blue of the sky serene. 

Unmoved between the files of gray 

To the gate of death he takes his way, 



ALL BUT LOST. 

Unheeding the cruel taunt or sneer 
Which falls from the rebel musketeer; 
But, ready for death, his inward prayer 
Asks not for life, but strength to bear 
The martyr's crown, though thorny it be, 
The glorious emblem of the free. 

VII. 

And what was his crime ? The tale is brief ! — 

He heard the voice of Freedom call, 
And he left old Maine when the rebel chief 

Insulted the flag on Sumter's wall, 
And long he fought with a valiant might 
For the law of God and the cause of right, 
And a braver soldier was never born 
Than the one to die on this summer morn. 
The general sought for a scout, and he 
Was willing to suffer the jeopardy 
If he only might aid with his honest hand, 
The goodly cause of his native land. 
He went, was taken and doomed to die 
By a rebel court as a Union spy. 

VIII. 

'Tis hard to die when life is strong, 
When the heart throbs lustily, free from age, 

And the blood in the vein speeds brisk along, 
And the hopes of the Future the mind engage. 

But he must die, what traitorous knave 

Would raise but a finger, a foeman to save? 

Stern War knows nought of the claims of youth, 

Nor the rebel horde of honor and truth. 

So on they move with jeer and cry 

Till they reach the spot where the scout must die. 

IX. 

The time has come : — five minutes for prayer 
Is all the rebel chief can spare ; 



90 frobisher's seeial readings. 

Dead silence reigns, and all is still 
But the murmuring breeze or the flowing rill, 
Or, oyer the meadow, the lark's blithe lay 
That carols so sweet for the sunny day. 

x. 

One minute is gone ; he is praying now, 

But still unmoyed is his youthful brow. 

Two more have fled, the prayer is done, 

And he looks once more on the cheerful sun, 

On the scenes around, and his mind runs o'er 

With the lightning's speed the days of yore. 

He sees again that village in Maine, 

And he dreams himself a child again. 

The gentle mother clasps her boy, 

And the father's eye beams bright with joy, 

And then a face, — so dear to him — 

His sweetheart's — ah! his eye is dim 

With the mournful thought, but he bravely quells 

The deep emotion that quivers and swells. 

XI. 

One minute is left, one minute for breath, 

0, God ! but why so awful is Death ? 

Why doth the soul of the dying treasure 

Each beat of time in the failing measure ? 

The minute is up, and he must die. 

Is there no hope ? But stop ! that cry ! 

What is it that stays the hand of death, 

And echoing holds the very breath ? 

'Tis a bugle blast. 0, where can it be ? 

That carol of hope so wild and free. 

It echoes again, now louder and nearer 

The sweet notes ring, till clearer and clearer, 

The prisoner hears the bugle blast 

He heard so oft in the busy past. 

0, can it be ! 0, is it true 

That he yonder sees a line of blue ! 



EXPERIENCE AND HOPE. 91 

Eejoice ! rejoice ! 'tis the Union horse 
That thunders near with resistless force ! 
Ha ! ha ! how the rebels pale and quake ! 
Hurrah ! for their lines are beginning to break, 
And they feel in terror, the merciless steel, 
And the gray clad legions waver and reel ! 
They flee, hurrah! how the traitors run! 
Thank God ! the battle is fought and won. 

XII. 

The Northern bugles blithely play 
Through the Shenandoah at bright mid-day, 
And the gallant scout, once doomed to die, 
With his faithful friends rides gayly by. 
The trial is over, the danger is passed, 
But the thrilling remembrance will ever last, 
How the Union troopers came in view 
When the Northern bugles merrily blew. 



EXPERIENCE AND HOPE. 



PROTHIXGHA^I. 



Tribulation : That is, friction ; the hard, long rubbing 
of the man against his lot ; the grinding and rasping of duty, 
suffering, sorrow, temptation, and sin. This knocks off the 
sharp points, smooths the jagged edges, rounds the angles, 
polishes the surface, as the ceaseless pounding and rolling of 
waves on the sea-beach polishes the pebbles. Thence issues 
patience : the power to wait, endure, suffer, submit, with a 
firm, resigned spirit. Out of this, again, comes experience: 
the experimental knowledge of good and evil ; the solid 
scientific conviction ; the knowledge of things which he 
alone has who has tried them. Finally, from this experi- 
mental knowledge, the child of patience, and the grand- 
child of suffering, proceeds hope. See what a rock basis 



92 , frobisher's serial readings. 

hope has. We commonly think of hope as of some- 
thing light, airy, visionary; the mist of the morning; 
the hue of the sunset; the shimmer of the moonlight; 
a butterfly; the perfume of a flower; a gorgeous, but 
fantastical, fluttering thing; seen but a moment, and as it 
is about to disappear. But it is not so. Hope is one of the 
three things that abide when prophecies fail, and tongues 
cease, and knowledge passes away. And why does it abide ? 
Because it has this everlasting foundation ; because beneath 
it lie these enormous layers of experience, patience, tribula- 
tion ; because its base is down among the primitive forma- 
tions of being ; the limestone, the granite, the quartz, fused 
in the central fires, moulded by suffering, cooled by tears, 
and piled up in adamantine masses underneath the smiling 
surface of existence. Hope is the silvery needle of the Jung- 
frau, that catches the first ray of the morning and the part- 
ing beam of the evening, and in the midnight glitters like a 
star, because its mountain roots take hold on the core of the 
planet. 

We speak in these days of the experimental sciences, the 
knowledges that result from experience. Chemistry is an 
experimental science. So is physiology, and anatomy, and 
botany, and many another. It is by long process of experi- 
ment that we arrive at useful results. The sewing-machine 
did not come by inspiration, but by experiment. India rub- 
ber, the printing-press, the photograph, the pneumatic rail- 
way, the subsoil plough, resulted from experiments. The 
lives of Watt, and Fulton, and Stevenson, and Howe, and 
Goodyear, and Morse, to say nothing of scores of men less 
known, tell us how severe and protracted this course of ex- 
periment has been. The tribulation was fearful ; the patience 
was supreme ; the experience was thorough and convincing ; 
the hope was glorious; the success was triumphant. This 
hope we feel will not disappoint us. The result is accom- 
plished; the gain is sure. These fine fruits, so rich in com- 
fort, ease, convenience, wealth, material and social happi- 
ness for mankind, can never be taken away. 



EKOCH ARDEN". 93 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



'Twas in a city years ago, 
But just the time I hardly know, 
There lived a girl whose name was Lee, 
With eyes that sparkled like the sea; 
(As for her age, she did not show it, 
Nor did she want the world to know it, 
Perhaps she'll tell some other day,) 
Also a lad whose name was Eay, 
Besides a boy (I beg his pardon !) 
Whose mother named him Enoch Arden. 
The first boy had a miller dad, 
The second was a sailor lad ; 
Each boy was sharp, and in his way. 
Inclined to pass an idle day. 
The latter loafed, and to some pool 
Was more inclined to go than school. 
The former so was not inclined, 
By nature he'd a different mind; 
'Twas not to good — no boy's mind is, 
For he would often poke his phiz 
Into his father's bags of meal, 
And wriggle like a little eel, 
Or often in an idle hour, 
He'd play the dickens with the flour, 
And sometimes in his youthful flight 
He'd play the mischief in the night. 
The last is wrong ; it was the ghost 
He rather loved to play the most. 
To Annie Lee, with cautious pace, 
He'd often show his ghostly face, 
And cry out " bo ! " as she passed on, 
But Annie never liked the fun, 
She'd cry out " Enoch ! " in her fears, 
" Go catch that boy, and pull his ears ; 



94 frobisher's serial readings. 

He frightens me, and plays the ghost, 

That's why, my dear, I love you most." 

Then Enoch would to Philip run, 

And with his fist would lay it on; 

Or off Phil's shoulder knock a chip, 

Or sometimes cut his upper lip, 

Or black his eye ; then Phil would yield, 

Leave Enoch master of the field, 

And going throw at him a stone, 

With "wait till I catch you alone, 

Won't I punch you!" but Philip coming, 

Would quickly set the boy a running; 

Who cowardly would turn his back 

And take at once the beaten track; 

Then, like a soldier, he'd go on 

And boast of deeds that he had done; 

Or tell some boy his " muckle " feel, 

Or how he Enoch's nose did peel; 

Or whip the boy, if he were small, 

Until he'd made the urchin bawl. 

Then going to his father's mill, 

He'd pound the meal-bags with a will, 

And call them Enoch, or his nose, 

And lay on them repeated blows. 

But time walked on (please spare the figure) 

And both the boys were little bigger ; 

Both fell in love, as boys will do, 

And both in love with Annie, too. 

Each courted her, and each would roam 

To catch a chance to 'scort her home ; 

Or go to church (of course for prayer) 

They always prayed if she were there, 

For rain, perhaps (they knew their part) ; 

If lightning flashed, Phil home would start 

To get umbrella ; Enoch, too, 

Would take of this a " bird's-eye view, 



toussalnt l'ouvertuke. 95 

And to his dwelling turn his face 

And prove no loser in the race, 

And get back first; then Phil would rage 

And Annie try the storm assuage. 
" I hate you, Enoch ! " Phil would cry, 
" She is my girl ! " " She is ? " « You lie ! » 

But Annie's pleading look would check them, 

And to her side she both would beck them, 
" Come here, my darlings, as you're bid, 

Pll marry both ; " and so she did. 



TOTTSSAINT L'OUVEETTTKE. 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 



If I were to tell you the story of Napoleon, I should take 
it from the lips of Frenchmen, who find no language rich 
enough to paint the great captain of the nineteenth century. 
Were I to tell you the story of Washington, I should take it 
from your hearts, — you, who think no marble white enough 
on which to carve the name of the Father of his country. 

Cromwell manufactured his own army. Napoleon, at the 
age of twenty-seven, was placed at the head of the best 
troops Europe ever saw. Cromwell never saw an army till 
he was forty ; this man never saw a soldier till he was fifty. 
Cromwell manufactured his own army — out of what ? 
Englishmen, — the best blood in Europe. Out of the middle 
class of Englishmen, — the best blood of the island. And 
with it he conquered what ? Englishmen, — their equals. 
This man manufactured his army out of what ? Out of 
what you call the despicable race of negros, debased, demor- 
alized by two hundred years of slavery, one hundred 
thousand of them imported into the island within four years, 
unable to speak a dialect intelligible even to each other. 
Yet out of this mixed, and, as you say, despicable mass he 



96 

forged a thunderbolt and hurled it at what ? At the proud 
est blood in Europe, the Spaniard, and sent him home con- 
quered ; at the most warlike blood in Europe, the French, 
and put them under his feet; at the pluckiest blood in 
Europe, the English, and they skulked home to Jamaica. 
Now, if Cromwell was a general, at least this man was 
a soldier. 

Now, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, go back with me 
to the commencement of the century, and select what states- 
man you please. Let him be either American or European ; 
let him have a brain the result of six generations of culture ; 
let him have the ripest training of university routine ; let him 
add to it the better education of practical life ; crown his 
temples with the silver of seventy years, and show me the 
man of Saxon lineage for whom his most sanguine admirer 
will wreathe a laurel rich as embittered foes have placed on 
the brow of this negro, — rare military skill, profound 
knowledge of human nature, content to blot out all party 
distinctions, and trust a state to the blood of its sons, — an- 
ticipating Sir Eobert Peel fifty years, and taking his station 
by the side of Roger Williams, before any Englishman or 
American had won the right ; and yet this is the record 
which the history of rival States makes up for this in- 
spired black of St. Domingo. 

Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go to Hayti, and 
stand on those fifty thousand graves of the best soldiers 
France ever had, and ask them what they think of the 
negro's sword. 

I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon made his way to 
empire over broken oaths and through a sea of blood. This 
man never broke his word. I would call him Cromwell, but 
Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state he founded went 
down with him into his grave. I would call him Washington, 
but the great Virginian held slaves. This man risked his 
empire rather than permit the slave-trade in the humblest 
village of his dominions. 

You think me a fanatic, for you read history, not with 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 97 

your eyes but with your prejudices. But fifty years hence, 
when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse of history will put 
Phocian for the Greek, and Brutus for the Eoman, Hampden 
for England, Fayette for France, choose Washington as 
the bright consummate flower of our earlier civilization, 
and John Brown the ripe fruit of our noon-day, then, 
dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write in the clear 
blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the statesman, 
the martyr, Toussaint L'Ouverture. 



AFTEE THE BATTLE.— SEAECHING FOE THE 
SLAIN. 



sallie bridges. 



Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not so ; 

There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow ; 

There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there, 

And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair. 

Did you think when we came, you and I, out to-night 

To search for our dead, it would be a fair sight ? 

You're his wife ; you love him — you think so ; and I 
Am only his mother; my boy shall not lie 
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear 
His form to a grave that mine own soon may share. 
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth, 
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth. 

You will go ! then no faintings ! Give me the light, 
And follow my footsteps, — my heart will lead right. 
Ah, God ! what is here ? a great heap of the slain 
All mangled and gory! — what horrible pain 
These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, ye weep, 
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep. 

5 



98 erobisher's serial readings. 

More! more! Ah ! I thought I could nevermore know 

Grief, horror, or pity for aught here below, 

Since I stood in the porch and heard his Chief tell 

How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell. 

Did they think I cared then to see officers stand 

Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand ? 

\ 

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright, 
That your red hands turn over toward this dim light 
These dead men that stare so ? Ah, if you had kept 
Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left, 
You had heard that his place was worst of them all, 
Not 'mid the stragglers, — where he fought he would fall. 

There's the moon through the clouds : God, what a scene 
Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean, 
And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine ? 
Hark, a groan ! there's another — here in this line, 
Piled close on each other ! Ah, there is the flag, 
Torn, dripping with gore : bah ! they died for that rag. 

Here's the voice that we seek ; poor soul, do not start; 

We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart ! 

Is there aught we can do ? A message to give 

To any beloved one ? — I swear, if I live, 

To take it for sake of the words my boy said, 

" Home, mother, wife," ere he reeled amid the dead. 

But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood ? 

Speak, speak, man, or point ; 'twas the Ninth — Oh, the blood 

Is choking his voice ! What a look of despair ! 

Here, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair 

From eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, my own, 

My hands were both idle when you died alone. 

He's dying— he's dead ! Close his lids, let us go. 
God's peace on his soul ! If we only could know 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 99 

Where our own dear one lies ! — my soul has turned sick : 
Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick ? 
I cannot ! I cannot ! How eager you are ! 
One might think you were nursed on the red lap of War. 

He's not here, — and not here. What wild hopes flash thro' 

My thoughts as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew, 

And cast up a prayer to the blue quiet sky ! 

Was it you, girl, that shrieked ? Ah ! what face doth lie 

Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white ? 

G-od, my brain reels ! 'Tis a dream. My old sight 

Is dimmed with these horrors. My son ! oh, my son ! 
Would I had died for thee, my own, only one ! 
There, lift off your arms ; let him come'to the breast 
Where first he was lulled with my soul's hymn to rest, 
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss, 
As mine to his baby-touch ; was it for this? 

He was yours, too ; he loved you ? Yes, yes, you're right ; 
Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. 
Don't moan so, dear child ; you're young, and your years 
May still hold fair hopes, but the old die of tears. 
Yes, take him again ; ah ! don't lay your face there ; 
See, the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair. 

How quiet you are ! Has she fainted ? — her cheek 
Is as cold as his own. Say a word to me, — speak ! 
Am I crazed ? Is she dead ? Has her heart broke first ? 
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst. 
I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead ; 
Those corpses are stirring ; God help my poor head ! 

I'll sit by my children until the men come 

To bury the others, and then we'll go home. 

Why, the slain are all dancing ! Dearest, don't move! 

Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by love. 

Lullaby, lullaby ; sleep, sweet darling, sleep ! 

God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep. 



100 



THE STOEY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. 



ADELAIDE PBOCTOR. 



The fettered spirits linger 

In purgatorial pain, 
With penal fires effacing 

Their last faint earthly stain, 
"Which Life's imperfect sorrow 

Had tried to cleanse in vain. 

Yet on each feast of Mary 
Their sorrow finds release, 

For the Great Archangel Michael 
Comes down and bids it cease ; 

And the name of these brief respites 
Is called " Our Lady's Peace." 

Yet once — so runs the legend— 
"When the archangel came, 

And all these holy spirits 
Rejoiced at Mary's name, 

One voice alone was wailing, 
Still wailing on the same. 

And though a great Te Deum 

The happy echoes woke, 
This one discordant wailing 

Through the sweet voices broke: 
So when Saint Michael questioned, 

Thus the poor spirit spoke: 

I am not cold or thankless, 
Although I still complain ; 

I prize our Lady's blessing, 
Although it comes in vain 

To still my bitter anguish, 
Or quench my ceaseless pain. 



THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. 101 

"On earth a heart that loved me 

Still lives and mourns me there, 
And the shadow of his anguish 

Is more than I can bear ; 
All the torment that I suffer 

Is the thought of his despair. 

" The evening of my bridal 
Death took my life away ; 
Not all Love's passionate pleading 

Could gain an hour's delay. 
And he I left has suffered 
A whole year since that day. 

" If I could only see him, — 

If I could only go 
And speak one word of comfort 

And solace — then I know 
He would endure with patience, 

And strive against his woe." 

Thus the archangel answered : 

" Your time of pain is brief, 

And soon the peace of Heaven 

Will give you full relief; 
Yet if his earthly comfort 

So much outweighs your grief, 

* Then, through a special mercy, 

I offer you this grace, — 
You may seek him who mourns you, 

And look upon his face, 
And speak to him of comfort 

For one short minute's space. 

"But when that time is ended, 
Return here, and remain 



103 fbobisher's serial readings. 

A thousand years in torment, 
A thousand years in pain : 

Thus dearly must you purchase 
The comfort he will gain." 

The lime-tree's shade at evening 
Is spreading "broad and wide; 

Beneath their fragrant arches, 
Pace .slowly, side by side, 

In low and tender converse, 
A bridegroom and his bride. 

The night is calm and stilly, 
ISTo other sound is there 

Except their happy voices : 
What is that cold bleak air 

That passes through the lime-trees, 
And stirs the bridegroom's hair ? 

"While one low cry of anguish, 
Like the last dying wail 

Of some dumb, hunted creature, 
Is borne upon the gale : 

Why does the bridegroom shudder, 
And turn so deathly pale ? 

Near Purgatory's entrance 
The radiant angels wait ; 

It was the great Saint Michael 
Who closed that gloomy gate, 

When the poor wandering spirit 
Came back to meet her fate. 

u Pass on," thus spoke the angel : 
" Heaven's joy is deep and vast ; 
Pass on, pass on, poor spirit, 

For Heaven is yours at last ; 
In that one minute's anguish 

Your thousand years have passed." 



THE BELLS. 103 



THE BELLS 



A PAEODT. — J. E. EBOBISHEE. 



Heae the hotels with their bells, — 

Morning bells ! 
What a thundering sound of bells ! 
How they twang-ee-tee-bang ! 

Tee-bang, tee-bang! 
Up the stairs and halls around ; 

Twang-ee-tee-bang, tee-bang, 
What a bustling, hurrying sound ! 
Now the lodgers cease from snoring, 
Now the morning cock is crowing, 
Now the meadow lark is soaring, 
And the cattle they are lowing, 
While the bells are clanging, 
Whanging, 
Clang-ee-tee-bang, tee-bang, tee-bang, tee-bang, 
Olang-ee- tee-bang, tee-bang — 
Oh ! such a clanging never was heard, 
Even in the lurid lower world. 

Now hear the jangling breakfast bells ! 

Second bells ! 
Hear the distand sound of dishes, 

And the rattling knife and fork; 
Don't you smell those frying fishes, 

Tough beefsteak and crispy pork ? 
Here's the tune you've sung, 
As yoiA e leaped from bed to floor, 
" 1 wish that I had risen — before 
The second bells had rung ! " 
Now you hear the chairs a-moving, 
Bound the chamber you go raving, 
Fast your clothes on-hurrying ! 



104. erobisher's serial readings. 

Now some one taps upon your door — 
" Breakfast ! " Sf Yes, sir ! " you loudly roar ; 
But oh ! those bells that tell of viands smoking ; 
You fret, — you do, — with rage you're choking: 
Those sounds have died away, but still you hear 
Their brazen notes yet lingering in your ear. 
And they faintly say, clang-ee-tee bang, 
Tee-bang, tee-bang, clang-ee-tee-bang, 
Tee-bang, tee-bang. 

Then comes the dinner bells ! 

Delightful bells ! 
Of boiled and roasted meats 

Their ringing tells. 
Now the merchant drops his pen, 

And the workman leaves his tools ; 
Hear the sound once more — then 

All rush to eat like half-starved mules ; 
Oh ! never mind the noise and hustling, — 
Do all you can to help the bustling! 
Scrouge your neighbor, fill your plate, 
Stuff it down at railroad rate ; 
Eat all you can, — fill the bill, — 
You can settle, — eat to kill ! 
Thus it is, each day, we're running 
To the tune of bells a-ringing, 
With the dinging, donging, banging, whanging, 
To the clanging, and the banging, and the whanging 

of the bells ! 

There's another sound of bells! 

Supper bells ! 
"We're not so anxious as at noon, 
We're not at table quite so soon ; 

The crowd is small,. 
The noise not near as great. 

The dining hall 
Is filled by slower feet — 



THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. 105 

When they came to dinner rushing, 
One would think an army crushing 

Enemies beneath its feet. 
But now, to milder ringing bells, 
"With their sweet tingle, jingle, jingle, 
Jingle, jingle, jingle, tingle, jingle, 

Each one quiet takes his seat. 
Thus, by various kinds of bells, 

We eat and live, and live and eat, 
To the sound of clanging bells — 
To the jingling, dinging, ringing of a host of bells! 



THE CAKE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. 



THACKEEAY. 



Ik tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, 
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, 
Away from the world, and its toils and its cares, 
Pve a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, 

But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure; 

And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 

Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. 

The snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks 

With worthless old knicknacks, and silly old books, 

And foolish old odds, and foolish old ends, 

Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. 

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked), 

Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ; 

A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ; 

What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 



106 feobishee's seeial eeadi^gs. 

No better divan need the Sultan require, 
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ; 
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get 
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; 
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; 
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn, 
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 

Long, long, thro' the hours, and the night and the chimes, 
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times, 
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie, 
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

But of all the old sweet treasures that garnish my nest, 
There's one that I love and I cherish the best ; 
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair 
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. 

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat, 
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; 
But, since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, 
I bless thee, and love thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. 

If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms, 
A thrill must have passed thro' your withered old arms; 
I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; 
I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair. 

It was but a moment she sat in this place, 

She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ; 

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, 

And she sat there and bloomed in my cane-bottom'd chair. 

And so I have valued my chair ever since, 

Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ; 

Saint Fanny, my patroness, sweet I declare, 

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. 



DAENLEY'S deeam. 107 

When the candles burn low, and the company is gone, 
In the silence of night as I sit here alone — 
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair; 
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair. 

She comes from the past and revisits my room; 
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; 
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, 
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair. 



DARNLEY'S DREAM. 



SWI^BURXE. 



I dreamed this bed here was a boat adrift 

Wherein one sat with me who played and sang, 

Yet of his cittern I could hear no note 

Nor in what speech he sang inaudibly, 

But watched his working fingers and quick lips 

As with a passionate and loathing fear, 

And could not speak nor smite him; and methought 

That this was David ; and he knew my heart, 

How fain I would have smittten him, and laughed 

As 'twere to mock my helpless hands and hate. 

So drove we toward a rock whereon one sat 

Singing, that all the highest air of heaven 

Was kindled into light therewith, and shone 

As with a double dawn ; stars east and west 

Lightened with love to hear her and the sky 

Break in red bloom as leaf-buds break in spring. 

But these bore fires for blossoms ; then awhile 

My heart, too, kindled and sprang up and sang 

And made sweet music in me to keep time 

With that swift singing; then, as fire drops down 

Dropped and was quenched, and in joy's stead I felt 

Fear ache in me like hunger, and I saw 



108 fbobisheb's sebial beadikgs. 

These were not stars nor overhead was heaven 

But a blind vault more thick and gross than earth, 

The nether firmament that roots in hell, 

And those hot lights were of lost souls, and this 

The sea of tears and fire below the world 

That still must wash and cleanse not of one curse 

The far foul strands with all its wandering brine ; 

And as we drove I felt the shallop's sides 

Sapped by the burning water, plank from plank 

Severing ; and fain I would have cried on God, 

Bat that the rank air took me by the throat ; 

And ever she that sat on the sea rock 

Sang, and about her all the reefs were white 

With bones of men whose souls were turned to fire ; 

And if she were or were not what I thought, 

Meseemed we drew not near enough to know ; 

For ere we came to split upon that reef 

The sundering planks opened, and through their breach 

Swarmed in the dense surf of the dolorous sea 

With hands that plucked and tongues thrust out at us 

And fastened on me flame-like, that my flesh 

Was molten as with earthly fire, and dropped 

From naked bone and sinew ; but mine eyes 

The hot surf seared not, nor put out my. sense ; 

For I beheld and heard out of the surge 

Voices that shrieked and heads that rose, and knew 

Whose all they were, and whence their wrath at me ; 

For all these cried upon me that mine ears 

Rang, and my brain was like as beaten brass, 

Vibrating ; and the froth of that foul tide 

Was as their spittle shot in my full face 

That burnt it ; and with breast and flanks distent 

I strained myself to curse them back, and lacked 

Breath; the sore surge throttled my tongueless speech, 

Though its weight buoyed my dipping chin that sank 

No lower than where my lips were burnt with brine 

And my throat clenched fast of the strangling sea, 



THE POLISH BOY. 109 

Till I swam short with sick strokes, as one might 

Whose hands were maimed ; then mine ill spirit of sleep 

Shifted, and showed me as a garden walled, 

Wherein I stood naked, a shipwrecked man, 

Stunned yet and staggered from the sea, and soiled 

With all the weed and scurf of the gross wave 

Whose breach had cast me broken on that shore ; 

And one came like a god in woman's flesh 

And took mine eyes with hers, and gave me fruit 

As red as fire, but full of worms within 

That crawled and gendered ; and she gave me wine, 

But in the cup a toad was ; and she said, 

" Eat/' and I ate, and " Drink," and I did drink, 

And sickened ; then came one with spur on heeL 

Eed from his horse o'erridden, smeared with dust, 

And took my hand to lead me as to rest, 

Being bruised yet from the sea breach ; and his hand 

Was as of molten iron wherein mine 

Was as a brand in fire ; and at his feet 

The earth split, and I saw within the gulf, 

As in clear water, mine own writhen face, 

Eaten of worms and living ; then I woke. 



THE POLISH BOY. 



MKS. A. STEPHENS. 



Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, 
That like an arrow cleave the air, 

Causing the blood to creep and thrill 
With the sharp cadence of despair ? 

Whence came they ? from yon temple, where 

An altar, raised for private prayer, 

Now forms the warrior's marble bed, 

Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 



110 frobisher's serial readings. 

The dim funereal tapers throw 
A holy lustre o'er his brow, 
And burnish with their rajs of light 
The mass of curls that gather bright 
Above the haughty brow and eye 
Of a young boy that's kneeling by. 

What hand is that whose icy press 

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, 
But meets no answering caress, 

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp ? 
It is the hand of her whose cry 

Rang wildly late upon the air, 
When the dead warrior met her eye, 

Outstretched upon the altar there. 

Now with white lips and broken moan 
She sinks beside the altar stone ; 
But hark ! the heavy tramp of feet 
Is heard along the gloomy street ; 
Nearer and nearer yet they come, 
With clanking arms and noiseless drum. 
The gate is burst. A ruffian band 
Eush in and savagely demand, 
With brutal voice and oath profane, 
The startled boy for exile's chain. 

The mother sprang with gesture wild, 
And to her bosom snatched her child ; 
Then with pale cheek and flashing eye, 
Shouted with fearful energy, — 
" Back, ruffians, back ! nor dare to tread 
Too near the body of my dead ! 
Nor touch the living boy — I stand 
Between him and your lawless band ! 
No traitor he ; but listen ! I 
Have cursed your master's tyranny. 



THE POLISH BOY. Ill 

Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, 

With Russia's heaviest iron bands, 

And drag me to Siberia's wild 

To perish, if 'twill save my child ! " 

" Peace, woman, peace ! " the leader cried, 

Tearing the pale boy from her side; 

And in his ruffian grasp he bore 

His victim to the temple door. ^ 

" One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one! 

Will land or gold redeem my son ? 

Take heritage, take name, take all, 
But leave him free from Russian thrall ! 
Take these ! " and her white arms and hands 
She stripped of rings and diamond bands, 
And tore from braids of long black hair 
The gems that gleamed like starlight there. 

Her cross of blazing rubies last 
Down at the Russian's feet she cast. 
He stooped to seize the glittering store; 
Up springing from the marble floor 
The mother, with a cry of joy, 
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy! 
But no ! the Russian's iron grasp 
Again undid the mother's clasp. 
Forward she fell, with one long cry 
Of more than mortal agony. 

But the brave boy is roused at length, 
And, breaking from the Russian's hold, 

He stands a giant in the strength 
Of his young spirit, fierce and bold! 

If so, I bend the Polish knee, 

And, Russia, ask a boon of thee. 

Unclasped the brilliant coronal 
And carcanet of Oriental pearl ; 



112 erobisher's serial readings. 

With a full voice of proud command, 
He turns upon the wondering band : 
" Ye hold me not ! no, no, nor can ! 
This hour has made the boy a man. 
I knelt beside my slaughtered sire, 
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. 
I wept upon his marble brow, 
Yes, wept ! I was a child ; but noio — 
My noble mother on her knee 
Has done the work of years for me ! " 
He drew aside his broidered vest 
And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, 
The jeweled haft of a poniard bright 
Glittered a moment on the sight. 
" Ha ! start ye back ? Fool ! coward ! knave ! 
Think ye my noble father's gliave, 
Could drink the life-blood of a slave ? 
The pearls that on the handle flame, 
Would blush to rubies in their shame . 
The blade would quiver in thy breast, 
Ashamed of such ignoble rest ! 
No ; thus I rend the tyrant's chain, 
And fling him back a boy's disdain ! " 



A moment, and the funeral light 
Plashed on the jeweled weapon bright ; 
Another, and his young heart's blood 
Leaped to the floor a crimson flood. 
.Quick to his mother's side he sprang, 
And on the air his clear voice rang — 
" Up ! mother, up ! I'm free ! I'm free ! 
The choice was death or slavery. 
Up ! mother, up ! look on my face, 
I only wait for thy embrace. 
One last, last word — a blessing, one, 
To prove thou knowest what I've done. 



MANUELA. 113 

No look ! No word ! Canst thou not feel 
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal ? 
Speak, mother, speak — lift np thy head ! 
What, silent still ? Then art thou dead ! 
Great God, I thank thee ! Mother, I 
Rejoice with thee, and thus to die." 
Slowly he falls. The clustering hair 
Rolls back and leaves that forehead bare. 
One long, deep breath, and his pale head 
Lay on his mother's bosom, dead. 



MANUELA. 



BY BAYARD TAYLOR. 



From the doorway, Manuela, in the sunny April morn, 
Southward looks, along the valley, over leagues of gleaming 

corn ; 
Where the mountain's misty rampart, like the wall of Eden 

towers, 
And the isles of oak are sleeping on a painted sea of flowers. 

All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o'er, 
And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore ; 
Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels over all the grassy slope, 
Where the airy summits brighten nimbly leaps the antelope. 

Gentle eyes of Manuela! tell me, wherefore do ye rest, 

On the oak's enchanted islands, and the flowery ocean's 
breast ? 

Tell me, wherefore, down the valley, ye have traced the high- 
way's mark 

Far beyond the belts of timber, to the mountain-shadows 
dark? 



1.14 pkobisher's serial readings. 

Ah, the fragrant bay may blossom and the sprouting verdure 

shine 
With the tears of amber diopping from the tassels of the 

pine, 
And the morning's breath of balsam lightly brush her sunny 

cheek — 
Little recketh Manuela of the tales of loye they speak. 

When the summer's burning solstice on the mountain-har- 
vests glowed, 

She had watched a gallant horseman riding down the valley 
road ; 

Many times she saw him turning, looking back with parting 
thrills, 

Till amid her tears she lost him in the shadow of the hills. 

Ere the cloudless moons were over he had passed the desert's 

sand, 
Crossed the rushing Colorado and the wild Apache land, 
And his laden mules were driven, when the time of rains 

began, 
With the traders of Chihuahua, to the Fair of San Juan. 

Therefore watches Manuela, — therefore lightly doth she start, 
When the sound of distant footsteps seems the beating of her 

heart ; 
Not a wind the green oak rustles or the redwood branches 

stirs, 
But she hears the silver jingle of his ringing bit and spurs. 

Often, out the hazy distance, come the horsemen day by day, 
But they come not as Bernardo — she can see it far away; 
Well she knows the airy gallop of his mettled alazan, 
Light as any antelope upon the hills of G-avilan. 

She would knoxv him 'mid a thousand, by his free and 

gallant air ; 
By the featly-knit surape, such as wealthy traders wear; 



MANUELA. 115 

By his broidered calzoneros and his saddle, gayly spread, 
With its can tie rimmed with silver, and its horn a lion's head. 

None like him the light riata on the maddened bnll can 

throw ; 
None amid the mountain-canons track like him the stealthy 

doe; 
And at all the mission festals, few indeed the revelers are 
Who can dance with him the jota, touch with him the gay 

guitar. 

He has said to Manuela, and the echoes linger still 

In the cloisters of her bosom, with a secret, tender thrill, 

When the bay again has blossomed, and the valley stands in 

corn, 
Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in the wedding morn. 

He has pictured the procession, all in holiday attire, 

And the laugh of bridal gladness, when they see the distant 

spire ; 
Then their love shall kindle newly, and the world be doubly 

fair, 
In the cool, delicious crystal of the summer morning air. 

Tender eyes of Manuela! what has dimmed your lustrous 

beam? 
'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the casket of her dream. 
Ah, the eye of love must brighten, if its watches would be 

true, 
For the star is falsely mirrored in the rose's drop of dew ! 

But her eager eyes rekindle, and her breathless bosom thrills, 
As she sees a horseman moving in the shadow of the hills : 
Now in love and fond thanksgiving they may loose their 

pearly tides — 
'Tis the alazan that gallops, 'tis Bernardo's self that rides! 



116 ebobishee's seeial beadikgs. 



HOW THE BABY CAME. 



BY MAEY E. BEADLEY. 



The lady moon came down last night- 
She did, yon needn't donbt it — 

A lovely lady dressed in white, 
I'll tell yon all about it. 

They hurried Len and me to bed, 
And Aunty said, " Now maybe 

That pretty moon up overhead 
Will bring us down a baby. 

" You lie as quiet as can be ; 

Perhaps you'll catch her peeping 
Between the window-bars, to see 

If all the folks are sleeping. 
And then, if both of you keep still, 

And all the room is shady, 
She'll float across the window-sill, 

A bonnie white moon-lady. 

"Across the sill, along the floor, 

You'll see her shining brightly, 
Until she comes to mother's door, 

And then she'll vanish lightly. 
But in the morning you will find, 

If nothing happens, maybe, 
She's left us something nice behind — 

A beautiful star-baby." 

We didn't just believe her then, 
For Aunty's always chaffing ; 

The tales she tells to me and Len 
Would make you die a-laughing ; 



HOW THE BABY CAME. 117 

And when she went out pretty soon, 
Len said, " That's Aunty's humming ; 

There aint a bit of a lady moon, 
Nor any baby coming." 

I thought myself it was a fib, 

And yet I wasn't certain ; 
So I kept quiet in the crib, 

And peeped behind the curtain. 
I didn't mean to sleep a wink. 

But all without a warning, 
I dropped right off— and don't you think, 

I never waked till morning ! 

Then there was Aunty by my bed, 
And when I climbed and kissed her, 

She laughed, and said, "You sleepy head! 
You've got a little sister ! 

What made you shut your eyes so soon ? 
I've half a mind to scold you — 

For down she came, that lady moon, 
Exactly as I told you !" 

And truly, it was not a joke, 

In spite of Len's denying, 
For just the very time she spoke, 

We heard the baby crying. 
The way we jumped and made a rush 

For mother's room that minute! 
But Aunty stopped us, crying, " Hush I 

Or else you shan't go in it." 

And so we had to tiptoe in, 

And keep an awful quiet, 
As if it was a mighty sin 

To make a bit of riot. 



113 frobisbzer's serial readings. 

But there was baby, anyhow — 
The funniest little midget ! 

I just wish you could peep in now, 
And see her squirm and fidget. 

' Len says he don't believe it's true, 

(He isn't such a gaby,) 
The moon had anything to do 

With bringing us that baby. 
But seems to me it's very clear, 

As clear as running water — 
Last night there was no baby here, 

So something must have brought her. 



CUBFEW. 

England's sun was setting o'er the hills so far away, 
And filled the land with misty beauty at the close of day ; 
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden 

fair ; 
He with step so slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair ; 
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful; she with lips so cold 

and white, 
Struggled to keep back the murmur — " Curfew must not ring 

to-night ! " 

" Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison 

old, 
With its walls so tall and gloomy, walls so dark, and damp, 

and cold ; 
"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, 
At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. 
Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew 

strangely white, 
As she spoke in husky whispers — " Curfew T must not ring 

to-night ! " 



CURFEW. 119 

" Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton ; every word pierced her 
young heart 

Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned 
darfc ; 

" Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy, 
shadowed tower ; 

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ; 

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, 

Now I'm old, I will not miss it ; girl, the Curfew rings to- 
night ! " 

Wild her eyes, and pale her features, stern and white her 

thoughtful brow, 
And within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn 

vow; 
She had listened, while the judges read, without, a tear or 

sigh, 
"At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood must die" 
And her breath came fast, and faster, and her eyes grew large 

and bright, 
One low murmur, scarcely spoken — " Curfew must not ring 

to-night ! " 

Then with light steps ran she forward, sprang within the old 

church door, 
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before ; 
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and 

brow aglow, 
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and 

fro; 
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of 

light, 
Upward still, her pale lips saying — " Curfew shall not ring 

to-night ! " 

She has reached the last topmost round, o'er her hangs the 

great dark bell, 
With the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down 

to hell ; 



120 frobisher's serial readings. 

See, the ponderous tongue is swinging ! 'tis the hour of Cur- 
few now, 

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and 
paled her brow. 

Shall she let it ring ? No, never ! her eyes flash with sud- 
den light, 

And she springs and grasps it, saying — " Curfew shall not 
ring to-night ! " 

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny spot below ; 
There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung 

to and fro. 
And the old deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the 

bell), 
While he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's 

funeral knell ; 
And the maiden, clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale 

and white, 
Stilled her heart's wild beating, moaning — "Giirfeiv shall not 

ring to-night ! " 

It was o'er, the bell ceased swinging, and the maiden stepped 

once more 
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for long, long years 

before, 
Human foot had not been planted. O'er the hills came 

Cromwell ; 
Bessie saw him, told her story, as at his feet she fell, 
Showed her strained hands all bleeding, bruised, and torn, 
And her young sweet face so haggard, with a look so sad 

and worn, 
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty 

light; 
" Go, your lover lives ! " cried Cromwell — " Gurfew shall not 

ring to-night ! " 



BALLAD OF THE WAE. 121 

BALLAD OP THE WAR. 



ALICE CAET. 



I. 

Into the house ran Lettice, 

With hair so long and so bright, 
Crying, " Mother ! Johnny has 'listed ! 

He has 'listed into the fight ! " 

" Ah, that's a likely story ! 

Why, darling, don't you see, 
If Johnny had 'listed into the war 

He would tell your father and me ! " 

" But he is going to go, mother, 

Whether it's right or wrong ; 
He is thinking of it all the while, 

And he won't be with us long." 

" Our Johnny going to the war! " 

" Ay, ay, and the time is near ; 
He said, 'when the corn was once in the ground, 

We couldn't keep him here ! ' " 

" Hush, child ! your brother Johnny 

Meant to give you a fright." 
" Mother, he'll go — I tell you I know 

He's listed into the fight ! 

" Plucking a rose from the bush, he said, 

Before its leaves were black, 
He'd have a soldier's cap on his head, 

And a knapsack on his back ! " 

" A dream ! a dream ! little Lettice, 

A wild dream of the night : 
Go find and fetch your brother in, 

And he will set us right." 
6 



122 frobishek's serial readings. 

So out of the house ran Lefctice, 

Calling near and far, 
" Johnny, tell me, and tell me true, 

Are you going to go to the war ? " 

At last she came and found him 

In the dusty cattle-close, 
Whistling, Hail Columbia ! 

And beating time with his rose. 

The rose he broke from the bush when he said. 

Before its leaves were black, 
He'd have a soldier's cap on his head, 

And a knapsack on his back. 

Then all in gay, mock anger, 

He plucked her by the sleeve, 
Saying, " Dear little, sweet little rebel, 

I am going, by your leave ! " 

"0, Johnny! Johnny!" low he stooped 1 

And kissed her wet cheeks dry, 
And took her golden head in his hands, 

And told her he would not die. 

"But, Letty, if anything happen — 

It won't, little Letty, I know — 
But if anything should, you mast be twice as good 

As you are to mother, you know! 

" Not but that you are good, Letty, 

As good as you can be ; 
But then you know it might be so 

You'd have to be good for me ! " . 

So straight to the house they went, his cheeks 

Flushing under his brim, 
And his two broad-shouldered oxen 

Turned their great eyes after him. 



BALLAD OF THE WAR. 123 

That night in the good old farmstead 

Was many a sob of pain ; 
" Johnny, stay ! if you go away 

It will never be home again ! " 

But time its still sure comfort lent, 

Crawling, crawling past, 
And Johnny's gallant regiment 

Was going to go at last. 

And steadying up her stricken soul, 

The mother turned about, 
Took what was Johnny's from the drawer 

And shook the rose-leaves out. 

And brought the cap she had lined with silk, 

And strapped his knapsack on, 
And her heart, though it bled, was proud as she said, 

" You would hardly know our John ! " 

II. 

Another year, and the roses 

Were bright on the bush by the door ; 

And into the house ran Lettice, 
Her pale cheeks glad once more. 

"0 mother! news has come to-day! 

'Tis flying all about ; 
Our John's regiment, they say, 

Is all to be mustered out ! 

" mother, you must buy me a dress, 

And ribbons of blue and buff! 
what shall we say to make the day 

Merry and mad enough ! " 



124 



And the mother put away her look 

Of weary waiting gloom, 
And a feast was set, and the neighbors met 

To welcome Johnny home. 

The good old father silent stood 

With his eager face at the pane, 
And Lettice was out at the door to shout 

When she saw him in the lane. 

And by-and-by a soldier 

Came o'er the grassy hill : 
It was not he they looked to see, 

And every heart stood still. 

He brought them Johnny's knapsack, 

'Twas all that he could do ; 
And the cap he had worn, all grimed and torn, 

With a bullet-hole straight through ! 



MACLAINE'S CHILD. 

u Maclaine ! you've scourged me like a hound, 
You should have struck me to the ground : 
You should have played a chieftain's part — 
You should have stabbed me to the heart. 

" And for this wrong which you have done, 
I'll wreak my vengeance on your son." 
He seized the child with sudden hold, 
A smiling infant, three years old, 

And, leaping for its topmost ledge, 
He held the infant o'er the edge ; 
rt In vain thy wrath, thy sorrow vain ; 
No hand shall save it, proud Maclaine ! " 



maclaike's child. 125 

With flashing eye and burning brow, 
The mother followed, heedless how; 
But, midway up the rugged steep, 
She found a chasm she could not leap ; 

And, kneeling on its brink, she raised 
Her supplicating hands, and gazed. 
" Oh ! spare my child, my joy, my pride : 
Oh ! give me back my child !" she cried. 

" Come, Evan," said the trembling chief — 
His bosom wrung with pride and grief — 
"Kestore the boy, give back my son, 
And I'll forgive the wrong you've done ! " 

" I scorn forgiveness, haughty man ! 
You've injured me before the clan, 
And naught but blood shall wipe away 
The shame I have endured to-day ! " 

And as he spoke he raised the child, 
To dash it 'mid the breakers wild : 
But, at the mother's piercing cry, 
Drew back a step and made reply : 

" Fair lady, if your lord will strip, 
And let a clansman wield the whip, 
Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run, 
I'll give you back your little son." 

The lady's cheek grew pale with ire, 
The chieftain's eyes flashed sudden fire: 
He drew a pistol from his breast, 
Took aim, — then dropped it, sore distressed. 

ei I might have slain my babe instead. 
Come, Evan, come," the father said, 
And through his heart a tremor ran, 
" We'll fight our quarrel man to man." 



126 erobisher's serial readings. 

"You've heard my answer, proud Maclaine, 

I will not fight you, — think again." 

The lady stood in mute despair, 

With freezing blood and stiffening hair ; 

She moved no limb, she spoke no word, 
She could not look upon her lord. 
He saw the quivering of her eye, 
Pale lips and speechless agony. 

And, doing battle with his pride, 
" Give back the boy, — I yield ; " he cried. 
Thus love prevailed ; and bending low, 
He bared his shoulders to the blow. 

" I smite you/' said the clansman true, 
"Forgive me, chief, the deed I do ! 
For by yon heaven that hears me speak, 
My dirk in Evan's heart shall reek ! " 

But Evan's face beamed hate and joy ; 
Close to his breast he hugged the boy ; 
" Revenge is just, revenge is sweet, 
And mine, Lochbuy, shall be complete." 

Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock, 
He threw the infant o'er the rock, — 
Then followed with a desperate leap, 
Down fifty fathoms to the deep. 

They found their bodies in the tide ; 
And never till the day she died 
Was that sad mother known to smile : 
The Niobe of Mulla's isle. 



MURAD. 127 

MURAD. 

EXPRESSLY FOR THE "SERIAL READINGS." 



(After the Danish of Christian Winther.) by john volck. 



I. 

Deep in the dreamy forest, beneath whose fragrant roof 
The stag is swiftly sweeping the greensward with his hoof, 
Near by the brook whose babbling the little birds arouse, 
By mighty beeches shaded there stands a hunter's house. 

Before the gate is growing a dark and lofty pine, 
The house is almost hidden beneath a creeping yine, 
Upon the door, long painted, some hunting scenes appear, 
Above it hangs a trophy, the antlers of a deer. 

The breezes softly sweep thro' the trees with whisp'ring sound, 

While in the distance echoes the baying of a hound ; 

And while the fawn goes grazing where dainty wood-flowers 

throng, 
Sounds from the leafy thicket the cuckoo's lonesome song. 

Within the house is silence, but peace has from it fled, 
In agony a woman is stretched upon her bed; 
Her eyes are fading fast, like the stars when night meets day, 
As if her soul were ready from earth to wing its way. 

A loyely maid is seated beside the sufferer's bed, 
Upon her hand is resting her drooping, golden head. 
Her cheek has lost its roses, but trembling on it lie 
The glittering pearls of sorrow fast falling from her eye. 

Stretched at his length before her, a dog of powerful size, 
As tawny as a lion, in quiet slumber lies ; 
But leaning 'gainst the door stands a tall, a handsome swain, 
His flashing eyes are fixed upon the maiden with disdain. 



128 

He firmly clasps his rifle ; his face is deadly white ; 
His gesture and his glances betray his heart's despite, 
And, as he nears the maiden, a smile defiant lies 
Around his lip, while whispered his threat'ning words arise. 

But just as he draws near her, although with cautious pace, 
The dog awakes and watches his wild and frowning face, 
As if he meant to listen, as if he seemed to guess 
What hate for one another man and woman may possess. 

" I care not for thy sorrow ! the tears that dim thine eyes 
Do touch my heart no more than the rain-drops from the 

skies. 
Thou hatest me, Agnete. I now return thy hate ! 
To-day we part forever — thy suitor shares my fate. 

" My love I humbly offered thee ; before thy feet I lay, 
But coldly, and with scorn, thou hast driven me away. 
All ties are rent asunder ! thy friendship I despise ! 
Henceforth to hate and vengeance my life I sacrifice. 

" Keen-loaded is my rifle, and whetted is my knife, 
This evening, in the forest, we battle life for life. 
I'll show that noble falcon that I his wings can clip ! 
He ne'er again shall drink the dew from off thy rosy lip. 

" Thy soft blue eye, Agnete, beseeches me in vain ; 

It stings my heart, and maddens me, it fills my breast with 

pain. 
For him its tears are falling; but in its azure sea 
He'll drown his glances never more ; he's ever lost to thee. 

"Ere sunset he shall wander the same dark road as I; 
Our fates are linked together, together we will die. 
So help me all the angels! To-day begins the chase, 
The dog that he has given thee shall aid me him to trace." 



MURAD. 129 

He kicked the dog, and called him, stood still one moment 

more, 
Then turning round and whistling, he hurried thro' the door. 
The mastiff growled with anger, yet moved not from the maid, 
A wreath of snowy teeth he threat'ningly displayed. 

Like a broken fading rose down sank she in the chair, 
The shriek within her bosom was stifled by despair. 
She drooped her head and wept, but no solace could she find, 
For all the cruel thoughts that came rushing thro' her mind. 

Then yawned the mastiff slowly, disturbed was his repose, 
His powerful body stretching, up from the floor he rose, 
Then raised his eyes, and bending them upon the weeping 

maid, 
Down in her lap so fondly his massive head he laid. 

From inmost heart he breathed a sigh so long and deep, 
As if he meant to ask her: wherefore dost thou weep ? 
As if he only wished, that to him she would impart 
The cause of all the trouble that weighed upon her heart. 

His large, expressive eyes with their dark and lustrous hue 
Were sorrowfully resting on the maiden's soft and blue. 
Then crimsoned o'er her face, and her eyes grew full of light ; 
The star of hope was rising in her thought's gloomy night. 

With trembling lips she whispered : " By Murad will I try, 
To warn him and to save him, if not, with him I die." 
And, burning with excitement, she seized her pen and wrote 
To him for whom her heart throbbed, in haste, this little 
note : 

" I know thy life in danger, and, therefore, will I now 
No longer hide, that no one is dear to me as thou. 
What not for all the world I would yesterday have told, 
To-day my heart dictates me, and bids me to unfold. 

6* 



130 frobisher's serial readings. 

" Be guarded 'gainst thy foe ; in the wood he lies in wait ; 
He'll take thee by surprise, take thy life to quench his hate. 
I've none to send but Murad. My only hope is he. 
dearest love be watchful — and heaven be with thee." 

No sooner had she done, than the little note she placed 
Beneath the mastiff's collar, and bade him to make haste. 
He licked her hands and gamboled, her wish full well he 

knew, 
And off he went, and soon among the trees was lost to view. 

II. 

A little hill arises where, turning to the right, 

The path runs thro' the thicket, and there winds out of 

sight. 
Upon it grows a linden. The sun with all its skill 
Cannot disturb the shadow its leaves cast o'er the hill. 

There, gazing down the pathway with vacant eyes, stood he, 
The young and fiery hunter, beneath the linden-tree. 
With one hand on his rifle, to his heart the other pressed, 
He listened to the voices of hatred in his breast. 

Like marble was his face. In the forest's dim-lit gloom 

He looked as if he stood there a statue on a tomb. 

He stood as still and silent as were his soul at rest ; 

No glance betrayed the tempest that moved within his breast. 

In rapid, wild succession dark pictures of his fate 
Arose before his mind's eye and fed his burning hate. 
With deep and eager passion, quite maddening his brain, 
His wretched heart was draining a cup of bitter pain. 

His wretched heart was draining a cup of bitterest gall, 
As inner voices whispered, that gone were hope and all, 
That vanished was forever his best and brightest dream, 
That from incessant longing naught could his soul redeem. 



MUKAD. 131 

Then footsteps broke the stillness ! a change passed o'er his 

face ! 
Adown the narrow path came a youth with hasty pace. 
And thro' the silent wood rang a gleeful melody, 
And merry, like the carol, the singer seemed to be. 

Then stopped the happy singer ! his heart stood still with 

dread ! 
A shout was heard, a rifle gleamed, and, aiming at his head, 
Before him stood the hunter, the fatal shot to fire — 
But take his life at once was no vengeance worth desire. 

No, lingering like a tiger that tarries with delight 
To trifle with his prey, ere he ends its deathly fright, 
The swain prolonged the dread — to the brim he would enjoy 
The cup full of revenge ere his foe he did destroy. 

Now! — now he was contented, no longer would delay. 
But swifter than a flash was the danger swept away ! 
Out rushed the savage dog, and, with one terrific bound, 
Full at the hunter's throat he sprang, and hm*led him to the 
ground. 

The bullet from his rifle flew whizzing to the sky ! 

He struggled, and he strove from the furious dog to fly. 

He writhed with pain and anguish, and fought with fearful 

ire, 
But vainly, till the youth bade the mastiff to retire. 

Up leapt he then defiantly, and cast upon his foe 
A glance in which lay gathered his hatred and his woe, 
Then flung away his rifle, cast his dagger in the air, 
And vanished in the copse with a cry of wild despair. 

The youth stood for an in stant as rooted to the spot, 
Awe-stricken was his heart, ev'n his saver he forgot, 
Then fell his eyes upon him, and no sooner he beheld 
The love-betraying letter, than was the dread dispelled. 



132 EEOBISHER's SEEIAL EEADI"N"GS. 

With beaming eyes he read it, he kissed it, and he pressed 
It many many times to his lips, to his breast ; 
And filled with joy and longing he hastened to his love, 
While the dog played before him, and the birds sang above. 

III. 

Now was it almost eve, and the bright eye of day 
Sent thro' the whisp'ring greenwood its last golden ray. 
All seemed to be at rest, but a sweet nightingale 
Was ponring forth her notes in the still, listening vale. 

In the garden sat Agnete with sad and troubled mind, 
Of lilies and of roses a fragrant wreath she twined. 
Alas! her mother slumbered, her soul had gone to rest, 
But ere it winged to heaven the maiden she had blessed. 

Then entered from the forest the happy youth with haste, 
And knowing straight his footstep her tear-filled eyes she 

raised. 
He understood her sorrow, and why those tears she she d, 
And, sitting down beside her, he gently to her said : 

" O, weep no more, my darling ; 0, grieve not, fairest love ; 
Thy mother dear has gone to her brighter home above. 
And know'st thou not, savior, a heart belongs to thee, 
That both in joy and sorrow will love thee tenderly ? " 

Thus while the curfew tolled, and the twilight, like a veil, 
Descended from the heavens and shrouded wood and dale, 
The youth spoke words of comfort her sorrow to erase, 
And peace and hope and love spread their sunshine o'er her 
face. 

But at their feet sat Murad, their faithful friend and guide, 
He looked upon the youth and the maiden by his side 
With eyes so bright and beamy, as if he seemed to guess 
What love for another man and woman may possess. 

I 






FAIRY STORIES FOR LITTLE FOLKS. 133 



FAIRY STORIES FOR LITTLE FOLKS.— TIBB 
JACKET. 

Tibb Jacket was the youngest of four children, and 
small for her. age ; and for some reason her mother did not 
love her as she did her sister Hetty, and her two great, stout, 
roaring boys. So Tibb was pushed on one side and ordered 
about from morning till night. Tibb always had the cold 
seat by the door. Tibb must trudge when none of the rest 
was willing to go. Tibb wore Hetty's old clothes, while the 
rest had new. Tibb staid at home when there was not room 
for four. Tibb was always forgotten when her mother came 
back from town with presents for the children, and Tibb 
was always to blame for everything that went wrong. 

So Tibb used to go away by herself and cry ; and one day 
she went out into the woods, and was about to sit down on 
the stone, when she saw that a wounded toad was lying on 
the stone. 

"Poor little thing!" said Tibb, and moved to another 
stone. 

" You are a good girl, Tibb," said the toad, raising its head 
to look at her. " Wait till the Christmas party and see what 
will happen." 

Tibb was so frightened to hear a toad speak, that she ran 
home at once ; but when she was safe there, she began to 
wonder at what the toad had said. Every year her grand- 
father gave a Christmas party, and invited all the children 
to his house ; but how would that help her, even if she 
should be allowed to go ? She was sorry that she did not 
ask the toad more questions, and went back to look for it, 
but it was gone ; so she was obliged to wait like the rest of 
the world, and see what would happen. 

As it came toward Christmas, the children began to talk 
of the party and what they should wear. 

" What shall I wear ? " asked Tibb. 



134 erobisher's serial readings. 

" You won't go, Miss," said Hetty ; " there is not room in 
the sleigh for us all." 

But when her mother came in, Tibb, though half afraid, 
asked her mother if she could go, too. 

" It depends how you behave yourself," said her mother, 
crossly. She always spoke crossly to Tibb. 

Tibb made up her mind she would be the b^t girl in the 
world. She tried to be always good, but she determined to 
be so good that even her mother could not find fault with 
her ; and she flew about the house as busy as a bee, and all 
the time wondering how good would come to her of the 
Christmas party. So the time went on till the day before 
Christmas. 

On that day Hetty was tying her hair before the glass, to 
see how she could wear it, and stuck her mother's comb in 
her hair. Ud luckily, she pulled it out so roughly that it 
broke. Hetty was frightened, and after thinking a moment, 
she concluded to put the pieces in Tibb's little box. By- 
and-by her mother asked for the comb. 

" I saw the pieces in Tibb's box," said Hetty. 

" And how dared you touch my comb ? " cried the mother 
to Tibb. "Don't tell me you haven't touched it. Hetty- 
saw the pieces in your box. You are a meddler, and a 
wicked girl for having told a lie, and you shall not go to 
your grandfather's party." 

Tibb stood like one thunderstruck. She had so made up 
her mind that some great good would come to her this 
Christmas, that she could not believe she was to stay at 
home. She begged and prayed her mother, though to no 
purpose ; and when they drove away in the splendid great 
sleigh, wrapped up to their noses in furs, the bells jingling 
and the horses prancing, she threw herself flat on the floor, 
and cried as if her heart would break. 

While she lay there, came a knock at the door — a tiny 
little knock. 

" Come in ! " cried Tibb, but the door did not open. 
Then Tibb went to the door herself, and pat, pat, came some 



EAIRY ST0EIES FOR LITTLE POLES. 135 

little footsteps into the kitchen, but Tibb could see 
nothing. 

" Good morning and a merry Christmas/' said a small 
voice. 

" Good morning back again/'' answered Tibb, staring, for 
still she could see nothing. "Where are you, whoever you 
are ? " 

" Here," squeaked the voice ; but Tibb was no wiser than 
before, and was going to sit down in the arm-chair to think 
what it should mean, when : 

" Mercy me ! " squeaked the voice again, " don't sit down 
here. I am in the chair, and you'll crush me. Get your 
mother's spectacles, my child." 

"So Tibb put on her mother's spectacles, and then she 
saw a little woman, hardly larger than a mouse, in a white 
cap and fur cloak. 

" Tibb," said the little figure, " I am a fairy, and you are 
a very good girl. 

Tibb's eyes grew as big as saucers. 

Tibb," said the fairy, " I have come to take dinner with 
you. Do you set the table, and I will cook the dinner." 

" But there ain't anything in the house but bread," said 
Tibb. 

" Give it me," said the fairy. 

Tibb brought the bread, and she put two pieces in the 
oven and one in the big pot, and one on the table. 

When the table was ready: 

" Now," said the fairy, " let us look after our dinner." 

And she took out from the oven a turkey and a fruit pie , 
and from the pot all sorts of eatables, at the same time the 
side-table turned into rolls and cakes. 

Tibb had never sat down at such meal in her life. 

When they had eaten : 

"Now," said the fairy, "as I told you before, you are a 
good girl, and I have brought you a Christmas-present. But 
first, what would you like best ? " 

"I should like," said Tibb, growing very desirous, "to be 



136 fkoijisheb's seeial readings. 

like the rest of the family, and not always be put off in a 
corner; but I suppose it is no use use to wish that." 

" We will see," said the fairy. ' " From this time you shall 
have good luck with everything. That is my Christmas- 
present." 

Tibb was a little disappointed; but before she could 
answer, pat, pat, the fairy trotted out of the kitchen, and 
her mother and the rest of the children came home. At 
once they all noticed a change in Tibb. 

" What has come over Tibb ? " said they. 

Tibb felt it also in herself. She was not afraid now of 
doing things wrong, for she knew she would do them right. 
Her mother began to say : 

"Tibb has something in her after all." 

Hetty said : 

" Tibb has all the luck since I told that lie about her." 

And the neighbors said : 

" Tibb is the smartest of the whole of them." 

And by-and-by Tibb found herself no longer pushed into 
a corner, but an important person ; and she used to say to 
herself: 

" How lucky it was that I had to stay home that day ! If 
I had gone to grandpapa's, I should never have seen the 
fairy." 



THE FAIRY PRECEPT. 137 



THE FAIRY PRECEPT. 



A DIALOGUE EOR LITTLE FOLKS. 



Mary. 


The Fairy Precept. 


Sarah. 


Red-Riding-Hood. 


Lizzie. 


Cinderella. 


Herbert. 


Aladdin. 


Frank. 


Jack The Giant-Killer. 



School- Room. — Curtain at lack. 
School children at study. 

Mary. — I declare it's real mean that we should have to 
work so hard, when we can do so many things a great deal 
nicer. 

Sarah. — Yes, and I was to spend the afternoon with Fan- 
nie Ray, and see her new doll, but I haven't learned half of 
this page of spelling ; so, of course, I can't go. 

Herbert. — Well, I shall throw this old slate out of the 
window, for I can't begin to do this sum. 

Lizzie. — Oh, it's easy enough to get your lessons; I 
learned mine right away ; but if you had to do all this sew- 
ing, and had pricked your fingers as often as I have, you 
would get mad too. 

Frakk.— I tell you what, this studying is a fraud; so I 
propose that we stop it, and have some fun. 

All. —Oh, yes! that will be much better. 

[ They put up things, looks, etc.] 

Mary. — Now, what shall we do ? 
Lizzie. — Yes, Frank, tell us. 
Herbert.— You proposed it, you know. 
Sarah. — Of course, you ought to lead off. 
Frank.— We'll play marbles. 
Girls.— Oh, we can't do that. 



138 

Sarah.— Get out our dolls! 

Boys. — That wouldn't be fun. 

Lizzie. — They shouldn't haye my doll, if it was ; the last 
time they played with it they pulled off one foot and broke 
its head. 

Frank. — Well, that was your fault ; you pulled it away 
from us. 

Lizzie.— I didn't. 

Herbert. — Yes, you did, too. 

Lizzie. — Well, I wasn't going to have you throw it around 
the room so. 

Mart. — Oh, boys don't know how to handle things, they 
are so rude. 

Herbert. — Don't you talk, Miss Mary ! Who broke my 
kite? 

Mary. — Bah ! 

Frank. — And who lost my top ? 

Sarah.— Well, if you call this fan, I don't. I think it's 
real " pokey ! " 

Frank. — Then why don't you play what we want you to ? 
Girls always ought to do what boys tell them. 

Lizzie. — Oh, had they? I guess when I grow up you 
shan't order me around. 

Frank. — Won't I though ? You'll have to do just what 
I want you to. 

All. — Well, what shall we do, anyhow ? 

{Enter Fairy.] 

Fairy. — Children ! 

All. — Oh, my gracious ! 

Fairy. — Do not be afraid : I am a child like the rest of 
you, only I have more power, for I can make others enjoy 
themselves. I am the Fairy Precept. 

All. — Oh ! a real Fairy ? 

Fairy. — What was the trouble when I came in ? 

Sarah. — We didn't know what to play. 



THE FAIRY PRECEPT. 139 

Fairy.— Why, it isn't play-hour, is it ? 

Frank. — No, but you see we were tired- of study, and so 
we concluded to stop. 

Fairy. — And were you playing when I came ? 

Herbert. — Why, no, not exactly. We were just about 
to stop quarreling, and go to fighting. 

Fairy. — Oh, that is terrible ! Now, I came to show you 
something pleasant. You all like fairy stories. 

All. — Oh, yes ! 

Fairy. — Look there, then, and you shall see some of the 
children you haye read of so often. 

[She walks to the right and left of curtain, waving her 
wand.] 

[The curtain separates in the middle.] 
Little Ked-Riding-Hood is seen. 

I'm Little Eed-Eiding-Hood, happy and gay, 
Who went from my home on that dear summer day, 
And through the great wood tripped the mossy path o'er, 
To take some nice things to my grandmamma's door. 
But the birds sang so sweetly, the sky was so blue, 
That at last I forgot all about the poor dame, 
And that great ugly wolf up the forest path came ; 
Then how he found out all my errand from me, 
How he left me still playing beneath the great tree; 
How he made a fine meal off of poor grandmamma, 
And a good one of me, though more dainty by far; 
All this you well know, and you all understood 
That loitering to play killed Eed-Eiding-Hood. 

[Exit] 

[Fairy ivaves her wand. Enter Aladdin.] 

Aladdin. — I'm Aladdin, a scamp, 

Who once found a rare lamp, 



140 frobisher's serial readings. 

Though 'twas done through no credit to me ; 

For my uncle, you know, 

Was too anxious to go, 
And I was more lazy than he. 

But when I found out 

What the fuss was about, 
I had riches and jewels in store, 

With a glorious treat 

Of nice goodies to eat, 
And the sweet princess Babron-badour. 

Then when I had built 

My grand palace of gilt, 
Of my lamp I was careless, you know, . 

My treasures so rare 

Were whirled through the air, 
And that was the end of my show. 

[Exit] 

[Fairy waves her wand. Enter Cinderella.] 

Cinderella's little story 

You must know, I'm very sure, 
How I worked from dawn to twilight, 

Made the tire, swept the floor ; 
Saw my sisters go to parties, 

While I never dared to roam ; 
Saw them dressed in silk and satin, 

While I slaved for them at home. 
How I never moped nor fretted, 

Nor their pleasure never marred, 
How at last my patient waiting 

Brought its bright and sure reward. 
Then, of course, you all remember 

How I dressed me for my ride, 
How I danced, and, oh, how sweetly, 

I became the Prince's bride, 
When he tried the crystal slipper, 

Kneeling gayly by my side. [Exit.] 



THE FAIRY PRECEPT. 141 

[Fairy waves her wand. Enter Jack The Giant-Killer.] 

Jack The Giant-Killer am I, very valiant, very bold, 

And most certain all of you have heard the story told, 

How by pitfalls and by stratagems, and by many a curious 
plan, 

I have freed my merry England of the greatest curse of 
man. 

How those seven monstrous giants with my single hand I 
slew, 

Opened wide their castle gateways and their dungeons over- 
threw ; 

Gave their gold-chests and their jewels to the poor whom 
they oppressed, 

Gave their trembling captives freedom, and the troubled 
nation rest ; 

And at last, my combats over, I was honored with the hand 

Of the fairest and the noblest of the ladies in the land. 

[Fairy 'waves her wand — curtain closes.] 

Fairy. — These my pictures, children dear, 
Listen, now, and yon shall hear, 
"What from them I'd have you learn, 
That the truth you may discern. 

[Fairy waves her wand — curtain opens.] 

[Red-Riding-Hood and Aladdin.] 

Both. — In us you see the punishment 

That ever must arise, 
From carelessness and laziness, 

Which you shall all despise, 
Whilst forethought and obedience 

You should most highly prize. 



142 frobisher's serial readings. 

[Fairy waves her wand. — Enter Cinderella and Jack.] 

Both. — And we would strive to show you 
How happy you may be, 
If you try to gain the virtues 
Which in us, we hope, you see, 
For by patience and by usefulness 
You all may nobler be. 

[Fairy exit Groups right and left.] 

SONG. 

We have a time to study, 

And we have a time to play, 

So we'll try by being useful 

To do all the good we may, 

For we learn from childhood fables, 
That 'tis much the better rule 
To do one's duty ever 
In our home and in our school. 



APPENDIX, 



VOICE CULTURE, etc.— READING.— TO TEACHERS. 



J. E. EROBISHEE. 



Those who teach, reading should thoroughly understand 
their work. They should excel, even to artistic skill, recog- 
nizing its highest developments, even though not obliged to 
directly make use of them, as in instructing younger 
pupils. By a comprehensive knowledge of the subject in 
its entirety, the easier it is found to impart information of 
its lesser parts. By the acquisition of the higher graces 
(expression, feeling, magnetism), one has a keener appreci- 
ation of, and can more readily impart to others the use of 
the simpler elements, as leading to an agreeable end. Prin- 
ciples, as mere principles, are barren of interest and tedious 
both to pupil and instructor, except when known to be the 
means that lead to those crowning glories of a beautiful art, 
and then they have a life and meaning and purpose. 

" It is a lamentable fact that not one in thousands can criti- 
cise the art, and that not one in hundreds of thousands can 
read well. Even an uneducated, vulgar ear, however, may 
perceive defects in the finest reading — but it takes a high 
degree of culture really to appreciate and sympathize with 
excellencies/' " The rules of criticism are not arbitrary. In 
the mind there is an innate power of appreciating the beau- 
tiful in any art. Taste needs exercise to develop it, but it 
is inherent in the mind." 

" In no department of education is there so great a likeli- 
hood of perversion of powers as in this by no means the 
least important." It has not unfrequently happened that 



144 APPENDIX. 

faulty, erroneous instruction has entirely changed, if not 
absolutely ruined, habits of persons who otherwise, with 
their natural inclinations and tastes, would have proved at 
least acceptable if not superior in their style of reading. 
We constantly see such examples, and are forced to notice 
their painfully labored mannerisms as the result of such 
teaching. In the effort to improve voice, they are taught 
principles without afterwards being taught to do without 
them. Like persons learning to swim with corks and always 
after need them. They are not taught the difference be- 
tween the means and the end to be accomplished. Any 
one r it would seem, can readily see the teacher in such 
instances is not altogether blameless, for the pupil in 
reading, if at all tractable, learns more easily by imitating 
his teacher than by any almost other method, and rapidly 
acquires and tenaciously retains all the bad habits, as well 
as the good, of the model before him. It were even better 
that reading were never taught as reading than taught in 
the manner indicated. Far better were it to let each read 
in his own way, and especially so where one has a strong 
natural inclination to be in earnest. 

The effort should be to strengthen the voice, to make it 
pure, to have it well modulated, and to learn to speak dis- 
tinctly and not distortedly. 

The Nasal Okgans. 

And while thinking about distinctness and purity of 
tone of voice, let me remark that one great reason, and per- 
haps the greatest, that Americans as a nation are indistinct 
and impure in their tones of voice, is from an insufficient 
use of the nostrils in breathing. 

We constantly hear the objection that Americans speak 
through the nose. It is a most grievous mistake. We 
should by all means learn to speak in great part by means 
of that much-abused organ. The great trouble lies in the 
fact that we have such characteristically thin, small-sized 



APPENDIX. 145 

breathing- tubes upon our faces. These very organs are 
Susceptible of strengthening enlargement, like any other 
muscular portion of the system, by exercise, especially that 
of deep lung-breathing in the open air. 

Mothers in this country keep in close rooms, take but 
little exercise, and our children are feeble-voiced, consump- 
tive, and show the outward signs in small, sharp noses, and 
thin, sunken faces. 

The nasal twang is the result of weakness and limited size 
of the muscles of the nostrils. Pinch the nose and then at- 
tempt to speak, and you have it still more satisfactorily illus- 
trated. Then take a deep breath, widen the nostrils, and 
pour out the voice freely alike through mouth and nose and 
hear the difference. Eemember this fact, if persons have a 
nasal twang, it is because they do not speak through the nose. 

Feelixg. 

" The capacity to feel a result is very different from having 
the power to produce the sensation of it in others by an 
imitative art. The great requisite is to feel, then to know 
how to produce it in others, then the feeling to tell you 
when you have done what you wished. With a regulated 
voice, the mind supplies that power, and the expression is 
instantaneous. It is not perceived in part, for all are re- 
solved into feeling. This can only be secured by careful cul- 
ture. The conscious observance of principles and rules must 
become unconscious and spontaneous. J^o degree of imagina- 
tion and feelino- alone will render the vocal organs flexible — 
they must have special culture. An education of the voice 
and a proper combination of feeling is a removal of the 
shackles and bad habits. It is a development of the natural 
powers." 

The great object of teachers should be to cultivate the 
voices of pupils, so as to enable them to work out feelings. 
Not to have them show their skilful command of mere drill- 
work, but to give the sense by reasoning and talking it out, 

7 



146 APPENDIX. 

in a highly cultivated manner to make language effective, 
and everything to be accomplished by the least discernible 
use of those very principles by which a finished reading is at- 
tained. The practice of principles is one thing, their ju- 
dicious application another. 

Not long since a review of the city troops took place in 
New York, and among the rest were regiments of the " re- 
turned veterans." I stood among the thousands of eager 
spectators upon one of the great squares of the metropolis, 
watching regiment after regiment as they passed. How 
regular their motions, how keenly accurate their interlocked 
steps; \\ow precise, how symmetrically beautiful every move- 
ment at the quick, prompt, word of command; how brilliant 
in appearance— especially " the glorious Seventh ! " But, oh ! 
when came " the Boys in Blue" I stood transfixed with 
emotion. To be sure they had returned from hard-fought 
battle-fields, and I felt all that. But it was their marching I 
There was glory in it. It was genuine. There was no parade, no 
display; it was real ; it was natural. They had been drilled. 
Their motions were regular and true, but easy and devoid 
of stiffness. There was a marching that meant something. It 
was such a relief, and so grateful to the eye, after witnessing 
the splendid exactness of the evolutions of the others. And 
their cheering, as they answered to the salutations, went to 
the inmost heart. I went slowly and pensively towards my 
home, revolving in my mind the application of the lesson I 
had so singularly received. 

At first the application of principles is difficult, but time 
will soften and mellow any harshness in this respect, and the 
result will be the one desired. When the sense is made the 
main object, the minor details will soon take care of them- 
selves. At all events, be natural. Eead, if possible, so 
easily as not to read but to reason. 

A sturdy Dutch musician stood watching Mozart playing 
some difficult air upon his instrument. " Good heavens ! " 
he exclaimed, " how easily he plays what costs me such 
labor!" "Because," said Mozart, "I have so thoroughly 



APPENDIX. 14? 

practised the spirit of the piece as to have the effort cost me 
no effort." 

Pitt, the orator, was early taught by his father, the Earl of 
Chatham, to clearly, distinctly utter, and then to recite, pas- 
sages from Shakespeare and the poets. He was so young that 
he was placed in a chair at the further end of the room, and 
thus taught to exercise, and so careful was the culture thus 
given that he eventually became one of England's greatest 
orators. 

Daniel Webster, when only ten years of age, was the de- 
light of the teamsters (railroads were comparatively unknown 
at that time). These men usually remained " over" Satur- 
day night at bis father's house. We are told they revelled in 
hearing " young Dan read the Bible" His father was his 
model. 

In Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe's recently published work, 
" Men of Our Time" occurs the following account of the 
boyhood of her brother, Kev. Henry Ward Beecher. Tt is, 
to say the least, encouraging to young speakers who are 
striving to overcome native physical defects : 

" Henry Ward was not marked out by the prophecies of 
partial friends for any brilliant future. He had precisely 
the organization that often passes for dullness, in early boy- 
hood. He had great deficiency in verbal memory, a defi- 
ciency marked in him through life. He was exceedingly sen- 
sitive to praise and blame, extremely diffident, and with a 
power of yearning, undeveloped emotion, which he neither 
understood nor could express. Bis utterance teas tliick and 
indistinct, partly from bashfulness, and partly from an en- 
largement of the tonsils of the throat, so that in speaking or 
reading he was with difficulty understood. 

" In forecasting his horoscope, had any one taken the 
trouble then to do it, the last success that ever would -have 
been predicted for him would have been that of an orator. 

" ' When Henry is sent to me with a message,' said a good 
aunt, 'I have always to make him say it three times ; the 
first time I have no manner of an idea more than if he spoke 



148 APPENDIX. 

Choctaw ; the second, I catch now and then a word; by the 
third time I begin to understand.' 

"At Amherst, he was put through a strict drill in elocu- 
tion- by Professor John E. Lovell, now residing in New 
Haven, Conn. Of him, Mr. Beecher cherishes a grateful rec- 
collection, and never fails to send him a New Year's token of 
remembrance. 

" Mr. Beecher had many natural disabilities for the line of 
oratory, and their removal, so far as to make him an accept- 
able speaker, he holds due to the persevering drill of Mr. 
Lovell. His voice, naturally thick and husky, was devel- 
oped by the most persevering and systematic training. His 
gestures, and the management of his body went through a 
drill corresponding to that which the military youth goes 
through at West Point, to make his body supple to the exi- 
gencies of military evolution." 



BKEVITIES.— OKIGINAL AND SELECTED. 



J. E. FROBTSHER. 



Articulation clear, not loud; strong, true, appropriate. 
Niceties* come step by step. Diligence and practice with 
true artist. Life-time study, intense application, continued 
repetition of the same thing over and over strongly insisted 
upon. Fix attention ; repeat until seemingly perfect; second 
habit; patiently observe regularity. Manly, modest; deep 
abandonment to reality; set and studied manner until 
reality comes. Lose sight of self, be guided solely by the 
sentiment; full confidence in it never fails. Have your 
tones to monopolize the ear of your audience. Never strain 
lungs ; keep within limits. In most violent efforts keep in 

* The diligent student has only to practise faithfully, judiciously, 
and perseveringly, and he will soon prove the truthfulness of vocal 
gymnastics. 



APPENDIX. 149 

reserve The tones of the voice, the looks of the eye, the 
movement of the hand, in deep passion betray something 
unspoken, yet comprehended. Feel any passion by quality 
of sound. The imagination ought to be strongly impressed 
with the idea of an object which naturally excites it before 
the body is brought to correspond by suitable voice and 
gesture. When you feel it, give the expression of a passion 
instantly, don't fret it at any time. 

The complete culture of the voice for the purpose of public 
speaking ranges from an almost inaudible whisper to the 
most vigorous shouting. Though neither of these extremes 
would ever be used in actual speaking, they serve the practice 
of the voice, and insure command in every degree of force. 
Shouting is of great value as a vocal exercise. It invigorates 
the organs of speech, and strengthens the voice in its lower 
notes. When indulged in frequently it gives volume and 
power to the voice. The sounds given at such a time should 
be pure in their quality ; all the breath emitted should be 
converted into musical tones, not allowing the least aspirated 
character; the pronunciation must be clear and penetrating. 
It is not as necessary in an extensive space to raise the 
pitch and increase the force of the voice as it is to speak 
distinctly. There should be more speaking and less bawl- 
ing. The best orators are the most natural. Do not seem 
to have studied the art, but do all you can to conceal the 
appearance of having done so. Many over-reach — they 
shoot too high. It is not done by extraordinary but by 
gentle means. To become glowing and truly eloquent, one 
must rise in keeping with the subject without appearance of 
effort or art. Even in the pulpit use the natural tone to 
convince. 

Thoroughly understand and observe principles and rules, 
but use them unconsciously and spontaneously. Imagina- 
tion and feeling will never render the vocal organs flexible 
without special culture. Training the voice is only develop- 
ing the natural powers ; a removal of bad, artificial habits, 
and supplanting them by better. 



150 APPENDIX. 

The after-cultivation of expression, when the voice is 
formed, requires repeated communings and lonely hours of 
intense study to become truly great in the art of speaking. 
One must revel in the emotional and cultivate sensibility ; 
he must dream and fill his soul with luxurious sadness, 
and have wild and strange delights in desolation ; he must 
learn to have divine and rapturous joys through music, 
and learn what it is to stand rapt before a figure of ideal 
loveliness. He must cultivate all that ennobles taste, or his 
style will most likely incline to the passive and practical, 
and, consequently, be very one-sided in its character. 

The effects of such a course are very naturalizing and re- 
fining in their tendency. In its application we should 
always pursue the means best adapted to the subject and 
the occasion. Always in harmony with our own experience 
and observation. Nothing violent, no forced style for effect, 
but just as we would do under the most exciting situations. 
If one far-fetched expression is given the charm is gone. 

When the imagination, however, has been too much in- 
dulged, it is a struggle to descend to the simple elements of 
an art, but so is all duty. When a man plunges at once to 
the highest efforts, his deficiency of elementary knowledge 
will harass him all his life. With a fancy bordering on 
phrenzy, it is a mortification to his pride and a humiliation to 
his spirit to acknowledge his errors and submit like a child. 

Exaggeration of nature must be founded on common 
sense. The truly grand style is nature elevated, not dis- 
torted. It is the sublimity of poetic imagination, not the 
extravagance of wild mannerism. It is boldness of ex- 
ecution, resulting from practice, influenced by principles ; 
not the rashness of violence. Energy and force cease to be 
wonderful when they overstep the simplicity of nature. 

It is by a knowledge of principles that we acquire the 
faculty of feeling a result, and producing the sensation 
of it in others, by art. We must first feel and then know 
how to make others have the same feelings, and then to 
know when we have accomplished this. 



APPENDIX. 151 

There is so much ignorance and delusion on this art that 
gross errors cannot be detected from subtle truths, and an 
almost imperceptible partition separates the fine from the 
absurd. The sense is mistaken and the idea is belied. 

The great aim should be on the higher excellencies. Exces- 
sive labor in detail has frequently been pernicious. There 
must be an attention to general effect of the whole, a careful 
blending of the graces with the elementary. Learn to be 
simple as well as grand. The mechanism of an art gives con- 
fidence to the artist, and he is fearless — for, guided by prin- 
ciples, he knows he is right. 

Everything intended for public effort should be raised and 
enlarged to receive and convey full effects. Deliberate and 
stately steps, even studied grace, proper in public, though 
ridiculous in private. Make trifles great. The great art of 
the orator is to make whatever he talks about appear of im- 
portance. 

After all your care and preparation, your utterance must 
be of genuine feeling. So evidently feel every word uttered, 
and so thoroughly give the spirit, that none will stop to think 
whether you read well or not. Let the meaning alone oc- 
cupy your thoughts. Let the audience supply part of the 
expression. This is suggestive reading. Do not magnify 
and crowd the manner into a higher place than that occu- 
pied by the matter. Let it be subordinate, because if atten- 
tion is attracted to it, you fail in proportion. Declamation 
is mere noise and is worse than useless. These things must 
be practiced a great many times before expression becomes 
thoroughly mellowed. 

There are no tricks to real eloquence, they belong only to 
the stage — a low practice of the stage. 

Character Keading. 

In reading or reciting selections that refer to a number of 
objects and characters, especially when changes from one to 
another frequently occur, the tendency with amateurs is 



152 APPENDIX. 

an indiscriminate and variable localization. It should be 
the rule, that when you have, by the direction of the face 
or eyes, or by gestures of the hands, given a position to a 
character represented, or locality to an object which is men- 
tioned, that it should remain unchanged, unless a character 
in the progress of the piece is represented as in motion, and 
then to change and keep that position for that character, 
and so on until further movements are supposed to be effect- 
ed in any of the characters. To refer to an object or char- 
acter once as being in one direction, and shortly after to 
speak of it in another, without reason for the change, pre- 
sents a very obscure and confused picture to the hearer, and 
the effort should be to make everything as distinct as pos- 
sible. 

WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

" Dear Sir : — During my junior year in college, a discus- 
sion arose between myself and a number of my classmates 
in regard to the possibility of becoming a natural orator by 
practicing before the glass. In the course of the discussion, 
some one asserted that Wendell Phillips was accustomed to 
practice his orations before a long mirror. I replied that I 
did not believe it possible, and, partly as a joke, and partly 
in the hope of getting the desired information, I wrote to 
Mr. Phillips, asking him directly whether he was or was not 
accustomed to practice his speeches in the manner reported. 

' | By return mail I received the following noble and elo- 
quent reply. The thoughts it contains are, too, so suggestive, 
so truthful, and are expressed in such felicitous diction, that 
it seems hardly right to keep them as private property. I 
therefore cheerfully accede to your request, to send you a 
copy for publication in your forthcoming serial. 

" It seems to me to contain the philosophy of eloquence 
in a nutshell : " 

" ' Dear Sir : — I have little experience to guide you. All 
I know of speaking was wrought into me by the earnest 



APPENDIX. 153 

wish to impress unpopular truth, (dear to me) on unwilling 
hearts, and watching the chances of doing so in cold,' coun- 
try school-houses, before scanty audiences, who half hated 
me, and the other half trembled for their ease if they should 
be converted. 

"'As for declamation, I should judge it would be good to 
choose the finest extracts from ancient and modern orators — 
(say extracts two or three pages long), and accustom your- 
self alone in the open air to declare them, or before some 
confidential friend. Such a habit would store your mind 
with samples of vigorous eloquence, strengthen and famil- 
iarize your voice, aid you in obtaining entire control of your 
tones and compass, and give you confidence and ease in 
using it. 

" ' Earnestness and loved purposes, however, are the only 
things I know of to make a man eloquent. "Practice, like 
that I have described, will give you the tools. To use them 
naturally and efficiently is the final need — that art comes 
when you need it. 

" ' God does not allow so potent an instrument as eloquence 
to any hit those wliose whole heart is in some great issue. 

" < Yours truly, 
" < WENDELL PHILLIPS.' 
" Very truly yours, 

" GEO. M. BEAED. 
"Prof. Erobisher." 



PUBLIC READINGS. 



HEKRT WARD BEECHER. 



By public readers the young people in towns and villages 
may be made acquainted with the whole circle of English 
literature as they cannot be found in any other manner. A 
few will always be found who take the pains to seek out the 



154 APPENDIX. 

works and carefully to study the best English classics. But 
the great majority of persons, who obtain a common edu- 
cation in our schools and academies, will have read only a 
few extracts from classic authors, such as school readers 
supply. They will have no conception of literature as a 
whole, very little of its chief lights, and none at all of the 
authors who, though less than chiefs, constitute the rank and 
file of the army of writers. In hundreds of villages there 
are gentlemen or ladies who, with some painstaking, could, 
in a series of winter evenings, go through a course of read- 
ings, with familiar information respecting the authors and 
their age, which would give to hundreds of young people a 
view of authors which they would never otherwise obtain. 
In larger places, we do not deem it chimerical to suppose that 
there will yet be permanent reading academies, whose busi- 
ness it shall be to carry classes through a thorough course of 
literature. But even if this should seem impracticable, it 
is not difficult for towns and villages to utilize talent which 
exists in their midst, and secure inexpensively, from edu- 
cated gentlemen, a vast amount of reading which the young 
would not have the means or the motive of securing in any 
other way. 

But it is not necessary to wait for a development of reading 
on so large a scale. Already family reading is in practice in 
thousands of household, and might be introduced into tens 
of thousands of others. The father, the mother, the elder 
children or sometimes the boarders, even the hired men, are 
competent to preside at the book in long winter evenings. 
It will surprise one not familiar with the facts to learn how 
much may be gone over in a single season, and how eagerly 
interested the young become. Plain people, of little culture, 
soon develop a taste for knowledge, which is at once a revela- 
tion and a life-long treasure. 



appendix. 155 

The Uses of Keadixg. 

Extracts from Address at " The People's Headings."— Beecher. 

It seems very undesirable that the stores of literature 
should be locked up, gleaned only by those persons whose 
means and individual taste give them access to these treasures. 
It seems strange that we have not before thought of unlock- 
ing, bringing forth, and presenting, by the reader, to the 
people these inestimable beauties and excellencies of litera- 
ture. There is an unsurpassable wealth remaining almost 
unknown. Not one reader in a thousand takes the trouble 
now to look for things that he could well read and might 
well search for. It seems to me that this system of read- 
ing is susceptible of development to a degree that we have 
little conception of. It is not fair that a man having a light 
should put it under a bushel. It is not fair that a man who 
has received the gifts that constitute a good reader should 
let no one but himself have them. These gifts should be foi 
the community, and not for our own selfish appropriation. 

A good reader does not merely read to you what you knew 
before. He teaches you how to read ; that is, how to under- 
stand things that you have read a hundred times without 
understanding. A long step in the knowledge of literature 
might be taken, with very little expense, by the whole 
people by a judicious development of this system of popular 
reading. When you consider that it gives a great deal of 
popular information, and develops the literary tendencies of 
the whole age, I think that you will agree with me in saying 
that, though it be a day of small things as yet, the signs 
are auspicious that there may come a day of great things — 
of things patriotic, virtuous, and religious. 



156 APPENDIX. 



FROM THE ARTS OF READING AND SPEAKING. 



m by e. w. cox (an English Barrister). 

Reading is the foundation of speaking. If you read 
badly, you will not speak well. How rare is a good reader ; 
how abundant are the positively bad readers. The cause of 
the neglect lies, not so much in ignorance of the value of 
the art when acquired, as in a strange prejudice that to read 
and to speak are natural gifts, not to be implanted, and 
scarcely to be cultivated, by art. In the church, the bad 
readers being the majority, have sought to deter from 
good reading by calling it theatrical. Among lawyers there 
is an equally fallacious notion that studied speaking must 
be stilted. 

Another cause of neglect is, that bad readers and speakers 
are unconscious of their incapacity. They do not think 
they read or speak badly, for they cannot see or hear them- 
selves. In reading we know what the words of the author 
are intended to express, and we suppose we express them 
accordingly; so in speaking, we know what we designed to 
say, and we think we are saying it properly. It is very diffi- 
cult to convince a reader or a speaker that to other ears he 
is a failure. Every man can read and speak after a fashion, 
however rudely, and therefore his imperfection is not made 
so apparent to himself — it is only a question of degree; 
being able to read and speak, and not being conscious how 
he reads and speaks, he cannot easily be satisfied that he 
reads and speaks badly, and that proficiency must be the 
work of some teaching, much study, and more practice. 

Not one educated person in ten can read so as to express 
the meaning of the words ; they pervert the sense by wrong 
emphasis, or deprive it of all sense by a monstrous gabble, 
and do everything except what should be done, that is, talk 
the words. It is an art, and must be learned like any other 
art. 



APPENDIX. 15? 

A Few Hixts. 

Bead rigidly or correctly. Read pleasantly. 

Express fully and truly the author's meaning; transmit 
to the mind of the listener the ideas he desired to impart. 
Bead them just as you would speak them if they were your 
own thoughts. This is the grand rule, the thorough under- 
standing of what you read. Without this you can never be 
a reader. You must grasp every word, every thought, in all 
its significance. It is one of the many benefits of the art 
that you must learn what you read. In reading Shakespeare 
aloud, you will find infinite subtleties of the poet's genius 
which you never had discovered. 

By long-continued habit you can and must acquire the 
faculty of perceiving the meaning of the language, as fast as 
the eye falls upon the words, and to instantly give expression 
to it. You cannot pause to reflect ; your hesitation would be 
seen and felt. It can come only from so much practice that 
the words suggest the thought at the moment they are pre- 
sented. If you do not already possess this power, you can 
practise alone at first. Pause at the end of each sentence 
and ask the author's meaning. If need be, put the thought 
into other words. This labor repays all the trouble that it 
may cost. Failing in the first attempt, try again and again 
and again, until you can express the thought as fast as the 
words occur. 

When you read silently, you can pause and search for the 
meaning and reperuse the matter. But in reading aloud, 
you have to proceed right or wrong. The meaning must be 
caught the instant } T our eye falls upon the words. Practice 
is the only rule for its acquirement. 

This is the foundation. You must now learn to read 
pleasantly to induce others to listen. Your reading may be 
correct, but it must also be pleasing. 

Shun mannerism and monotony. Do not change your 
tone and style when you read. Do not read in a tone. This 
is the first defect to be removed. You must thoroughly 



158 APPENDIX. 

emancipate yourself from this bad habit of treating reading 
as an operation different from talking. 

To d'o this, you must first know that you have this bad 
habit. You must remember that you have more to i^learn 
than to learn. It is difficult to throw off a bad habit of slow 
growth, but firmness and persistency will conquer it. It 
will take time and determined practice however. 

Go into your room and read to the chairs, without the 
effort of trying to read well, but simply naturally. Think 
how you would tell it to the family circle. The perfection 
of such a reading would be, so to read that the eyes only of 
your audience, and not their ears, could tell them that you 
are reading. The practice may be slow but sure. Have no 
other care than how to read naturally. When you have made 
some manifest progress in this, and you are conscious that 
you are beginning to read as unaffectedly as you talk, you may 
begin to have regard to other features. But in all the pre- 
ceding efforts be sure to articulate distinctly and deliberately, 
giving all the sounds of the words full and true. 



The Actok and the Eeadee. 

The actor reads from his memory instead of reading from 
a book, and he adds action to expression. The reader should 
recite what he reads in precisely the same manner as does 
the actor. You have often heard it said of a man, that he 
reads in a theatrical manner, as if that were a fault ; but, 
before it is admitted to be a fault, we must understand pre- 
cisely in what sense the phrase is used. Some, who have 
never contemplated reading as an art, might ignorantly de- 
nounce as " theatrical " any reading that rises above gabbling, 
and all attempts to give natural expression to the thoughts. 
Such reading is " theatrical," indeed, but only in a commend- 
able sense. There is, however, a theatrical manner, that is 
called so reproachfully, and with justice, for it means read- 
ing like a bad actor — ranting, mouthing, etc. 

The same rules are to be observed by both ; the same effects 



APPENDIX. 159 

studied; the same intonations used. You should so read 
that, if the listener's eyes were bandaged, he could not tell 
that you were not acting, except by perceiving that your 
voice is stationary. The foundations are understanding and 
feeling. These often lie dormant for want of cultivation and 
stimulus, unknown even to the possessor, until some acci- 
dent reveals to himself and others the capacities of which 
he was not before conscious. They may be cultivated into 
excellence. A person who feels an author can readily by 
practice learn to express him. Improve yourself by hear- 
ing good reading and seeing good acting. Reading must be 
more than tolerable, it must be good. 

The Management of the Voice. 

There is, first, the regulation of the breath. Yon cannot 
breathe, while reading, without a perceptible pause, and 
more or less of alteration in the tone of the voice, produced 
by the change from the empty to the full lungs, affecting 
the pressure upon the delicate organs of speech. Where 
sentences are not very long, there is no great difficulty; 
but sometimes periods are extended through many lines, 
and the sense requires that the voice should be evenly 
sustained from the beginning to the end. In such a case 
you must breathe before its conclusion. By the nature 
of the case breath is required by the speaker, and suspen- 
sion, but not break in the voice, by the hearer, in order to 
agreeably render and receive the meaning of the language. 
This adds efficiency to the reading, relieves the monotony, 
and gives time to the listener to follow the sense, which at 
such times is usually involved in a wilderness of words. 

Invariably breathe through the nostrils. This prevents 
spasmodic gasping. By this means the air is slowly admit- 
ted, the lungs expand, and the chest rises with an equable 
motion. 

Speak out, but keep a rein upon the voice. Practice at 
the full power of your voice, but do not strain it by over- 



160 APPENDIX. 

exertion. Husband the breath. Cultivate intonation. The 
largest emotion would be dwarfed when expressed by a thin, 
small voice. The vocal organs may be strengthened by ju- 
dicious use, and the mind itself may be trained to a more 
rapid, as well as energetic, expression of its emotions. 

POETEY. 

Before you begin to read poetry, ascertain if you are in- 
fected by the evil habit of singing it, for until that is sub- 
dued, progress is hopeless. In the reading of poetry, as of 
prose, the sound must be subordinate to the sense. Although 
there is a measuring of words in poetry, there is no measure 
for the pauses ; you must pause wherever the sense demands 
a pause. If the pause so falls that it disturbs the melody of 
the verse, or the harmony of the rhyme, you should preserve 
them by so managing the voice that, after the pause, it shall 
resume in the self-same tone with which it rested, just re- 
minding the hearer of the music of the verse, as an added 
charm to the beauty of the thought. 

The best course of treatment, in addition to that already 
recommended, is to fill your mind with the meaning of the 
poet, and to resolve to give full expression to that meaning, 
forgetting, as far as you can, the metrical arrangement of the 
words in which the thoughts are conveyed. If your mind 
dwells too much upon the words, you will sing them ; but 
if it is filled with the ideas, you will read them. 

The gravest danger is monotony. Strive by all means 
to avoid this, and resort to every aid to give spirit and variety 
to your voice. Change its tone with every change in the 
thought to be expressed. Throw gayety into it when the 
theme is cheerful, and pathos when it is sad. Abandon your- 
self to the spirit of the poet, and let your utterance be the 
fruitful echo of his, even when he rises to rapture. Do not 
fear to over-act ; there is little chance of this becoming a 
fault in the reading of poetry. Mould your style to his. 



appendix. 161 

Argumentative Reading. 

You must read yery much more slowly than is requisite 
for narrative, because the listener's mind has to go through 
a process of positive exertion before it can fully receive 
what you design to convey, and if you read rapidly, it cannot 
possibly keep pace with you. You should also make long 
pauses, especially at the close of each proposition or step 
in the argument. You should emphasize the commence- 
ment of each proposition, in order to direct attention to it, 
and the conclusion should be read with still greater em- 
phasis, and still more slowly, the more firmly to impress it 
upon the listener's mind and memory — that being the end 
and object of the previous argument. 

The foremost difficulty in the reading of all compositions of 
this class is to keep the attention of your audience, especially 
if the subject is more instructive than interesting. You 
must rely much upon yourself for this effect. The tempta- 
tion is sorely upon you to be tame and dull. This is the 
fault against which you will have to guard, and every de- 
vice must be employed to counteract the tendency. Try to 
be cheerful, even lively. Seize every opportunity afforded 
by the text to vary the strain, to change your tone, to alter 
your expression. Avail yourself of every help to keep your 
audience awake, and for the purpose of stimulating atten- 
tion you may even venture to make them more emphatic 
than would be altogether permissible elsewhere. Discard 
the didactic tone while an episode is on the lips, and when, 
in due course, you resume the argument, the effect will be the 
more impressive — the change will be in itself an attraction, 
and help you through another passage of labor and reason- 
ing. Even the argument itself is capable of being much 
enlivened by your manner. Avoid the dreary and dogmatic 
tone ; put it in the lightest and liveliest tones you can 
assume, but yet with that earnestness which gives so much 
weight to conviction. 



162 appendix. 

Sentimental Heading. 

In this style of composition yon must feel what yon read. 
Tones are more sympathetic than words. G-ive to senti- 
ment the right expression, and vary that expresssion with 
every change in the sentiment, and your tone with every 
degree of emotion. When you feel what you read your 
hearers will also feel, and their feeling will react on you, ex- 
cite you more profoundly, and make your reading still more 
effective. 

Bat emotion will not bear too long a strain, and you 
should seize every opportunity for its relaxation. Pass 
rapidly from grave to gay, from the joyous to the sad, 
giving the full effect to each in its turn, that the effect of 
the other may be heightened by the contrast. 

Beading the Bible. 

In or out of the pulpit good reading of the Bible is very 
rarely heard. 

A very prevalent notion is, that the Bible requires to be 
read in different manner from other books. A tone is 
assumed that was originally intended to be reverential, as if 
the reader supposed that there was something holy in the 
words themselves, apart from the ideas they express. 

The supposed religious tone must be banished, so far as it. 
is applied to the book itself, or to the words printed in it ; 
but there is a reverential tone, properly applicable to the 
meaning conveyed by the words, which should be culti- 
vated. A mere narrative in the Bible demands no utterance 
differing from a narrative in any other book, unless the 
subject of it be solemn; but pious exhortations and religious 
sentiments have a manner of expression properly belonging 
to them, but very different indeed from the nasal twang 
and the intoned groans that are so much in vogue. 

The only remedy is the presence of an inexorable critic, 
who will stop you when faulty, and make you repeat the 
language until you read it rightly; or a professional teacher, 



APPENDIX. 163 

who will not merely detect your errors, but show you how 
you ought to read. 

A special difficulty in reading the Bible is in its very in- 
correct and imperfect punctuation. Introduce your own 
pauses according to the requirements of the composition. 
Pay no heed to the verses. The sense does not require this 
breaking up into verses ; it is purely arbitrary. It does not 
exist in the original ; it was adopted in the translation for 
the convenience of reference, and for chanting. Try to 
forget or you cannot read well. 

The Bible is a magnificent study for the reader, and an 
admirable exercise. For practice read at first, as glibly, 
lightly, and rapidly as if it were a novel. Head it again 
more slowly; then again more seriously; then with proper 
feeling and proper tone and emphasis. 

Persons accustomed to the drone, which they imagine to 
be reverential, will at first complain; but they will soon 
find how much more effectively it is heard and remembered. 
Give the words the full expression, and nothing but the ex- 
pression. But you must learn to despise objections to this 
method till people learn that it is the true way. Follow 
your own dictates. 

Dramatic Beading. 

There is scarcely any kind of composition that does not 
contain something dramatic. Wherever there is dialogue 
there is drama. 

To be a good reader of dialogue yon must acquire the 
faculty of personation. It is capable of cultivation, and cer- 
tain to improve by practice. Bashfulness is a very frequent 
cause of failure, supposed to result from apparent lack of the 
power itself. Almost every reader shrinks at first from 
reading in character. 

Persevere, and you will be able to measure your improve- 
ment almost from day to day as you advance, and will not 
only learn how dialogue ought to be read, but you will 
acquire the confidence to read it rightly. 



164 APPENDIX. 

Dialogue is the very best practice for students in the art 
of reading. Nothing so effectually destroys personal man- 
nerisms. You speak not as yourself, but as some other per- 
son, and often as half a dozen different persons, so that you 
are unconsciously stripped of your own mannerisms. You 
must infuse into it so much life and spirit, you must pass so 
rapidly from one style to another, that the most inveterate 
habits are shaken. 

All that is represented as spoken should be read precisely 
as such sentiments would have been uttered by the supposed 
speakers. The change must be instantaneous. There must 
be no pause to think who the next speaker is, but you must 
pass from one to the other without hesitation, and apparently 
without an effort. There must be no preparation, and the 
changes are often most abrupt. You must express not only 
the ideas, but the characteristic manner. 

At first study each character separately, until you can act 
it. Then try another, and so on until you can read a number. 
Then put them together, and read accordingly, and change 
rapidly from one to the other as you read the entire scene. 
Persevere, and you will find that you can succeed in this style 
of reading. It is not necessary to inform the audience as to 
each character after once pronouncing them, as your manner 
will indicate who is speaking. Dialogue comprises the whole 
art of reading. 

Witty and Humorous Headings. 

These are relished by the most highly educated and the 
most uninstructed with equal zest. The first great rule is to 
give full play to the fun. 

Humor is a clear sense of the ridiculous. Wit does not 
provoke laughter, but merely a smile. Humor is enjoyed 
by all persons, though varying in degrees. Laughter is its 
natural expression. In witty reading much depends upon 
the reader. Emphasize the witty points, and change the 
tone and manner as you utter them, speaking in a short, 
sharp, incisive tone. Imagine the witticism your own, and 



APPENDIX. 165 

not as taken from a book. Be lively, light, and tripping in 
expression. 

Humor must be given with the utmost gravity of counte- 
nance, the effect being heightened by contrast of the ludicrous 
idea and the grave voice that utters it. You should not ap- 
pear conscious of the fan, much less share the laughter it 
provokes. When all around you are convulsed with it, let 
not a muscle of your face be moved, except, perhaps, for 
an expression of wonder. 

Public Reading. 

Public readings are so extensively useful, that it is a pub- 
lic duty to contribute to the common fund of entertainment, 
which those who have cultivated taste and sufficient leisure 
are enabled- so to do. 

By taking part in these readings, not only will you do good 
service to others, but you will reap pleasure and advantage 
for yourself. The occasions are self instructing. You learn 
more of the art of reading in one evening than you would ac- 
quire in twenty trials without an audience. There is a mental 
excitement in kindling the emotions of a mass of listeners 
which acts and reacts by mutual sympathies. You feel the 
more what you read because others share the same feeling ; 
because you feel more, the more vividly do you express 
your feelings, and the more you stir the emotions of the 
audience. * 

You should prepare for a public reading by frequent re- 
hearsals. Practice during the day your readings for the 
night, even those most familiar and most often practiced. 
Study how to utter each syllable and express each thought 
with the greatest effect. 

Read clearly and distinctly, better than loudness. Be sure 
that all can hear you easily, or the audience will become 
restless. Your eyes should glance from book to audience 

* Lord Brougham was the originator of the " Penny Headings/' so 
popular in England. 



166 APPENDIX. 

continually to keep their attention. It requires practice. 
Look on the page to catch the sentence, and then, as the 
memory retains it, giye your attention to the audience. The 
importance of this process cannot be too strongly urged. In 
reading it is best to stand, as by this means only can you 
give full compass to your voice. 

Read slower than you converse, and articulate with great 
distinctness. Throw yourself heartily into the selection 
given, give reins to your emotions ; express what you feel, 
and try to feel what you read. 

Before an Audience 

It is better to read from a rest than to hold the book in 
the hand, as you are thus enabled to lay the left hand upon 
the leaf, the finger marking the line at which you are read- 
ing, when the eyes are turned to the audience, and subse- 
quently you wish to revert to the words last seen. Prepare 
your books by striking out superfluous words and passages 
that are dull, and not essential to the right understanding 
of the theme. In dialogue strike out all the "said he" 
"she answered" etc., and have them inferred by your tone 
and manner at the change. 

An excellent plan is to cut "readings" out of different 
volumes and *paste into neat blank-books, or what is still 
more advisable, copy into a large, portable, convenient- 
shaped blank-book the different selections that accumulate 
upon your hands. In this way you need but one book instead 
of a dozen or fifty, as the case may be. 

Platform Oratory. 

Your manner upon the platform should be deferential. 
An audience, whatever its composition, is more easily won 
than commanded. Under any imaginable provocation keep 
your temper; this will secure you the advantage. Lose 
your temper and you are lost; you give the victory to your 
opponents. 



APPENDIX. 167 

Never exhibit fear. Maintain unflinching firmness. Learn 
to face hisses, hoo tings, groanings, and even more alarming 
expressions of hostility with unblanched cheek, with a bold 
front, with un quivering voice, and with that aspect of cool 
resolve which commands the respect of the strong and cows 
the weak. 

The language of the platform should be at once simple 
and forcible, pictorial, but unornamented. Choose the most 
familiar words, and prefer such as most powerfully express 
your meaning. The object of oratory is not to display your- 
self, but to persuade others, and that is the right manner of 
using it which does its work most effectively. » 

A business meeting you must- address in a business man- 
ner, merely talking upon your legs, strictly limiting your 
talk to the matter in hand, and saying all in the fewest 
words. Eschew the oratorical manner, study simplicity, and 
be well prepared with facts and figures. Political and 
religious meetings are treated differently aud according to 
circumstances. Never, however, descend to your audience, 
even to a mob. A mob likes best the speaker who stands 
above his audience, and keeps above them. The loftier the 
orator the more gratifying to the assembly is his deference 
to them. 

Opek-Air Speaking. 

Speak out. Speak up. Do not wait for the significant 
shout that will come to you if you speak small. Cultivate 
a clear, full voice. Out-of-door speaking to most persons is 
very difficult of accomplishment, very trying to the lungs, 
and very crazing to the voice. 

You cannot speak in the same voice you use in a room, 
for such tones will appear swallowed up in space, and no 
echo will come back to you. Straining will not effect the 
object, and still louder tones bring no echo. Pain ensues; 
then hoarsenes, which will not be cured for several days. 
When the voice is used in the open air there is no echo, and 
it will be heard only so far as you have the power to throw 



168 APPENDIX. 

it. The voice may be vastly strengthened by judicious exer- 
cise, under instruction. Mere loudness will not succeed in 
the open air, and straining is in finitely worse. "When the 
effort becomes painful, the voice loses in force, and a sense 
of pain is the best warning that you have trespassed beyond 
your capacities. On the instant that the sensation occurs, 
moderate your tones, relax the exertion, and rather close 
your effort than continue at such risk of injury to your 
voice. 

Loudness will not answer. You will be heard further by 
clearness and fullness, and more than all by very distinct 
articulation. Speak slowly, looking at the most distant of 
the assembly, even though not heard by them. Thus the 
voice need not be strained, and yet used to its fullest 
capacities. 

The expression must be ruder, and the tones greatly 
exaggerated to be effective, and action is especially de- 
manded. It must be used liberally both in quantity and 
quality. In a room this would be out of place ; in the open 
air attractive, and even assists the voice. At such times, the 
expression, "Beating a speech into them," has a truth in it. 
Be very earnest. 



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